Well well well

I wrote this poem as an example of an assignment I'm having my classes do to get them thinking about poetry.

It's a poem about poetry.

Well

I don’t have time to wallow
in a shallow wading pool of fiction
and certainly not in the thick tomes of
classics that gather dust and spiderwebs
in precarious stacks around my bed.

But I make time to dive into the deep cobalt well of poetry,
that hides beneath its smooth surface,
the answers to the questions,
or someone to sympathize,
or beauty to quench my thirsty soul,
in hopes that something sticks to my slick skin.
In the time it takes to need air,
I always find a reason to keep breathing.

Also, I'm enjoying a new poet recommended by my mom. Thanks mom!

Both below are by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!

II

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!