DELIGHTS
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 1984
There's something enduring,
deliciously comforting,
about a well-written poem;
one you can read on a wet,
soppy, sloppy gray day,
taking us out of ourselves.
My mother
used to encourage me,
at age eleven,
to try my hand at poems;
"You can use imagery, words;
describing birds waving
while they fly south for the winter."
I laughed,
mocking her.
What did she know?
I wanted to write stories, books.
I never got past the first chapter.
But a poem! A well-written poem
is the fine wine in the soda aisle,
the fillet minion amidst the ground chuck,
a fragile rose among the wild onion grass.
It ages well,
comforts,
relaxes
alone
or taken with
a cup of hot tea
while curled up on a favorite couch
on a rainy day.
My mother, who also was a writer, used to cheer on my writing, encouraging me to try areas I hadn't tried yet. There are times when I miss both of my parents.
This is in my collection titled Love, Feelings and the Seasons of Life.
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