April is National Poetry Month. How will you celebrate?
Maybe some of you will go the high-tech route. Yes, there’s an app for that. Maybe some of you will go the low-tech route. Visit the library, a favorite book store. The Curious Book Shop is a local favorite here. Maybe some of you will want to celebrate with others. Find a poetry event near you on poets.org. Maybe some of you will not venture so far. Open up an old, dusty, long-forgotten volume of poetry that’s been sitting on your bookshelf for years. Scribble a beloved poem on a piece of paper and stick it in your pocket, ready to share with a loved one, coworker, or friend.
Poem in Your Pocket Day is April 14th!
Then others, the creative type, may just write a poem or two this month. (But, don’t think that you have to be the “creative type” to do just that.)
I think that I will go the low-tech route and find some poems upon my shelf,
but I will also try to find the time to write some poetry myself:
A Lesson Learned
The ice has melted,
the warmth has come,
the river flows once more.
The geese along the shore
say “Welcome Spring!”
“But, ’tis March,” I say,
“The warmth will not endure.”
A goose honks back: “I know!
Each year papa says ‘It’s time!’
and each year I say ‘No.
Don’t you remember last year,
when our feet froze in the snow?'”
“‘This year will be different,’ he says,
and this year it is so.
For now the warmth is here,
“The cold will come,
the flurries too,
and the river flow
will stop once more.
Some more suffering we must endure
before the Springtime warmth is here.”
“Then this year papa will say ‘It’s time!’
and I will say ‘Yes it is!’
Time to find my true love
and start a family all my own!”
“Next year I will be the papa.
The papa that says ‘It’s time!’
But I will wait until April or May
when Spring is warm,
and flowers bloom,
and the river flows unceasing!”
I smile at the goose.
He smiles at me.
Then suddently he cocks his head
and thinks most seriously.
“No,” he says, “I won’t do such.”
“I must say ‘It is time’ in March
just as my papa does.”
“Without the cold,
the flurries too,
without the river flow ceasing,
I would not appreciate
the warmth, the beauty,
the river flowing deeply.”
“And as a papa, I must teach
my little ones the same:
The warmth is warmer,
the beauty more,
after one has suffered pain.”
A Lesson Learned by Joyce P. Simkin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.