Poem Post

This week, I thought I might instead share some self-reflective poetry/creative writing as my blog post:

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to me

To hold a book in my hand. Why I’ll never forget

My uncle throwing my book into the bushes as we walked to a bar at a family reunion, why

It stung so much, why I was so angry. Why I crawled in after it. Why when I found it there I felt warm again. 

I think I understand. The love of reading and writing 

is a part of me,

I am made from it. It is made for me. It is a feeling but 

It is my everything. Thrilling. 

My greatest fantasy is of a beautiful, aged, ornate library, full

Of ancient books and closed to the public,

Just for me to explore, to hold the books in my hands and 

Smell the disintegrating pages. 

I hope that someday, I too can take my students to a place

Where in their minds there can be no greater beauty than clasping a book

In their hands, and then getting dirty

From diving into a bush to save it

From someone who couldn’t understand

That they couldn’t feel warm without it