I pick up my phone on a dreary Tuesday morning
as we often do when the workday slips into its routine,
the mind starts to wander for a bit of stimulation.
Perusing the latest on social media, a few of the
latest poems from my favorite poets begin to appear.
After a few scrolls a poem catches my eye-
a poem of longing, of the sea,
a poem of remembrance, a bit of rage,
a poem of hope that slips into your mind,
a poem of a love story, aching loss
and desires to start the healing.
I lean back, place my hand upon my chest
and let out a sigh for relief.
I am consumed by poetry, day by day
inundated by the unsettling.
As I sit here surrounded by half read
books, or ones that I threaten to start,
I am awed by the countless poets with
broken hearts, their stories cutting deep.
I shake it off, put down the phone, and
resume my task at hand.
The poets, the poetry, will always
be there when I need it. Sometimes
sparking at any opportunity, and sometimes
when it’s most convenient.
I smile with gratitude for I know
this abundance of poetry, it’s not going anywhere.