Rainy days, post blues dancing, always make me feel like writing.  And my writing comes out as poems.  The ideas flying through my mind, needing release, needing form and senses and expression.

I’m laying on my floor, listening to Norah Jones, going through my file of poetry.  Creating, refining, releasing.  I’ve purged about half of what I had saved from years ago.  I still smile when I read one of the first poems I ever wrote that wasn’t an assignment.

I found an unfinished poem that I started almost three years ago–it was the beginning of the poem that I needed to write today, that I needed to feel today.

My poems might only ever be good enough for me.  But that is enough.