I’ve been rereading Writing Toward Home by Georgia Heard and came across “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. Here’s an excerpt:
“…poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.”
As an exercise, Georgia asked readers to list places where writing hides for us. I challenged myself to fill a page in my notebook.
Some phrases sounded so poetic that I crafted them into a sort of list poem.
Poems wait to be found.
in the grass, glistening in the morning dew
and the parade of ants across the path.
in the flutter of wings at the bird feeder
and the slow unfolding of the morning glories.
If I listen carefully I may hear poems
in the crunch of celery,
the laughter of children,
an early morning thunderstorm, or
the calls of a red-winged blackbird.
Poems greet me at the edge of my dreams,
then stick around for that first sip of coffee.
They crouch in the corners of my grandchildren’s smiles,
and hover in my husband’s hand on the small of my back.
Poems are buried deep in my dog’s soft fur,
and will live forever in my memories.
Margaret has today’s Poetry Round Up here. Thanks for hosting, Margaret.