I hadn’t seen Amy in years, but during a mini-reunion with old high school friends she asked about my poetry.
“I still have the poem you wrote for me when my dad died,” she told me.
I didn’t remember writing the poem, but the idea that words, poetic words, would help connect me to a grieving friend sounded familiar. It’s how I still cope. Just last week as I was facing an anxious night myself, I pulled out a book of poetry a friend had given me. One after another I read through the verses.
Contrary to the stereotypical poet sequestered alone with a journal and a bottle of wine, poetry has always provided a way for me to reach out to others, to invite them into my life or join them in theirs.
(Today I am writing over at TweetSpeakPoetry.com. I'd love for you to follow the link above and join me there!)
Photo by -= Bruce Berrien =-, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.
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