Tuesday, June 14, 2016

 

Well, there was that one poem...

In writing about Megan Willome's book this past Sunday, I said that I wasn't a poet, and that is true. Well, except for this one day, in 2008.

My father's birthday is on August 3, so we often celebrate it way up off the grid on Osler Island in the Boundary Waters.  He is a hard guy to shop for; I can never figure out what he might actually need. One year, that year, he asked for a poem. I always (well, usually) write some poems while I am up there, and I showed him my book. He was decisive in choosing. He wanted this one:

The best part
About being a tree
Is holding this leaf
(light as a pencil)
Though I fear she will fall
Like the others.


I wrote it down on another sheet, and gave it to him. It seemed to make him genuinely happy; my family is like that. They are the kind of people that allow you to be a poet, if only for one day. 

How lucky am I?

Comments:
You are lucky. What a lovely story. A

nd what a great poem! You've got a whole simile going there, one I never would have thought of. Pencils make me think of paper, naturally, and that sends me to the idea of leaves of paper. I'm picturing pages falling to the ground now.
 
I remember getting the gift of this poem. Thanks.
 
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