I don’t normally share my poems, but it’s not a normal day, and that isn’t a terrible thing. So. Here’s a poem I wrote:
It’s not the chickens pecking
at the newly scattered corn
that I grew in my garden
just for them, and
it’s not the bees, or
the chickens or
the goat’s milk cheese, and
it definitely isn’t
owning a tiny house on a hill
protected all around by trees
and wildflowers picked
specifically
to add flavor to the honey–
no, it’s not that.
It’s not the stars on my Maps
of places I still want to see.
It’s not even the special places
I want to see
with someone special, and
it’s not watching my niblings
grow up (okay, it’s a little bit that), or
visiting friends around the world, including
those I still get to meet, and
it’s not all that I’m going to accomplish
in my career: the degrees,
the opportunities to lead, or
the paths I’m going to pave
as I teach the world to read, and,
no, it’s not even all the new
foods I still have to eat
that make me glow from
my toes to me cheeks
when I talk about
my future.
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