I need to start writing poetry again.  I can feel it in my soul, aching to write the words I can’t express in prose.

I want to sift through and find the ones that have meaning, to work them until they are right.  And then to do something with them.

Maybe leave them on chairs for people to find.

Seal them with wax and mail them.

Collect them and distribute them to the world at large.

Or continue to do what I have always done: keep them in a shabby folder, hidden from view.  Share a few on my blog (such as the Nectarine poem or the Blues poem), but mostly keep them to myself.  Look through them every so often, remembering circumstances and feelings, motivations for the words I find scribbled on pages.

Why is my life full of failed attempts at starts?  Why is the most common phrase out of my mouth “I almost” when speaking of the past?  As Yoda wisely said, “Do or do not.  There is no try.”

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