I have always been an avid reader of poetry. When I was little I was the only kid in my class excited when we had to recite poems in front of everyone. I haven’t forgotten a verse of any of them. When I was fifteen and my godson was born the happiest and calmest baby ever, I used to sit by his crib and read him Lorca. I then proceeded to do the same when I was pregnant, talking to a growing belly, probably looking a bit insane to anyone watching. Once born, my babies got the same treatment, a few pages at a time.
In spite of my love for it, I have never shared my poetry, unless you count the literature magazine published in my high school a million years ago. I never show it to anyone, and only a couple of people know I write it.
Ironically, that is how I started writing, when I was a kid. A kid kid, not a teenager by any means. But I have always felt very shy about it because I put no effort on it. I don’t work on it, I don’t develop it, I don’t sit and think and write. It just comes and I jot it down, on paper, napkins, my iPhone… Any surface goes, I guess. It kind of happens. I can go two years without writing a verse, and then I write quite a bit for a couple of months. It is moody, and unstructured, and a little bit chaotic. It is inconsistent, all over the place, and probably not good. Despite that, I barely edit it for typos. Because of that, I have never posted it anywhere.
But I like how it feels, and I especially like how I feel after I write it. It always seems like I just lifted a weight off my shoulders.
And today, maybe because of the weather, I feel brave enough to post a tiny bit of it.
Signs of Spring. In January.
A cropped top. Maybe two.
People, throngs of people, just being
Someone sitting on the damp
patio of a coffee shop,
reading a book
and sipping a cup of tea.
Walking on the street,
peeling one layer at a time:
until you walk with an open jacket,
just to feel the wind on your skin.
Those signs that tell you to watch,
And a yearly renewed appreciation.
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