This is a snapshot of my notes from a poetry class I took this summer from Dr. Anna Soter. I found them tonight, looking for something else. I hope they inspire you as much as they inspired me. Here is my gut response to these words tonight:
Crumbles of burgundy collect at my feet.
Slightly ajar, the room's in view.
An infinite number of planks,
Anchored by thick ropes of two,
Arc little children,
Through the measures of the sky,
Swinging outward and receding inward,
To the wind's sweet lullaby.
A tangerine rests softly
On blanket of periwinkle blue;
Today, there's no room for cotton,
Or tears to cloud the room.
Once the children finish flying,
Each will toss off his shoes.
And his toes will tickle prickly,
Trampolines of grassy goo.
Green apple blades bend nicely
In the sand beside the shade,
And kids dream so wildly,
Living outside the worldly cage.
That's where the magic happens,
Where truth begins to emerge.
Ideas crawl out of shadows;
Creativity starts to surge.
In this place where the children listen
To the whispers of the trees,
Magic swirls around them
Through lines of poetry.
In time, they walk, however,
One by one, back to the door.
Consumed by responsibility,
They eventually yearn for more.
As they reach to turn the handle,
As they wrap their fingers around the knob,
Rust, like pumice, scrapes them;
They work to hold back sobs.
Continuing to bear the friction,
Harsh against raw skin,
Their mind wanders wildly
Back to the sandbox again.
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