I found this un-marked, un-attributed poem after a coworker pulled it up to teach it in her class. I was astounded at how good her writing was -- not that I don't expect my coworkers to be good writers, but this poem really resonated with me. Then as I read more closely, several of the lines felt eerily familiar. I thought, "We have really similar writing styles." I read through the poem again. Then I thought, "I think I've written some of these lines in a poem before." I googled the lines to figure out who the author was -- it didn't come up anywhere. Then I searched folders on my computer and realized that I wrote this. It's nice, sometimes, to be impressed by yourself, and I hope that doesn't sound too pompous -- I don't fancy myself much of a writer. It was a pleasant surprise.
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The sway of the
flowers reassured her.
She could breathe
here.
Surrounded by
springing grass,
She made for
herself a pillow
And let her
sorrows flow away.
A light buzz was
in the air,
The bees hummed,
yes,
but too, the
energy grew.
It was May.
The clues were
everywhere.
No longer would
this grief
intertwine with
the tenacious sun,
a discordant
existence
strangling her
soul.
Breath after
breath,
She took in fresh
air,
and it filled her
veins with hope.
She could begin
anew.
