A Passion for Poetry

When I was young - that is not young, but younger, I had a passion for writing poetry. Each time I experienced something that had an inner meaning for me I mentally composed an ode to that moment. I was continually writing in my head, an exercise that I found compelling, pleasing, satisfying and needful to me. I wrote of many things, of experiences and perceptions, using descriptives as they occurred to me that would fairly and poetically represent my inner self.

And although it has been almost three decades since I last succumbed to the need to divest myself of these emotional literary outpourings, I recently felt curious about what it was that had so moved me, then left me, so I took up a few published collections and poked about in their contents. What I read surprised me, and gratified me. And reminded me quite clearly of the events which inspired what it was I had written.

A recovery of memory. Not so distant, yet not so present, either.

Early Harvest

The sun edges past clouds
gleaming like a silver dollar
and we dip our paddles
the lake reflecting
darkness of oncoming rain.

There looses a kingfisher's
mad taunt from pinetops
circling the lake.

Water pearls in our wake
the wind gusts and
our canoe darts sleek as an otter
to a rock-littered inlet
where we beach.

As we thrust sharp sticks
the dark soil yields garlic
blossoming the air
with its heavy headiness.

Strawberries hide
their insufficiency under weeds.
We carefully pick what's there
for late afternoon jam.

Gulls scream overhead
and whitecaps scatter on
the lake. the clean feather-edge
of swallows slice the turgid air.