I still have the first poetry book I ever received, dated all the way back to my childhood. I think my dad got it for a couple of cents at a garage sale. It had someone else’s handwriting on the inside, along with various check marks next to the previous owners favorite pieces. (I read those ones first, we didn’t have the same taste.)
Over the years it acquired a few coffee stains and folded edges – all the little qualities that made a book well-loved. It took me just as long to figure it out, too. I just couldn’t comprehend it at first, from the way the words were arranged on the page to the hidden concepts behind each of the pieces themselves.
I wanted to make readers feel everything.
The poems themselves I still read often, especially in times of self-doubt. There are so many memories that come with the raising of a poem. It’s very much a living creature, fluttering its wings and nesting in your lap. It still feels like the safest place to rest my pressed flowers and love notes.