I’m not paying attention. Things that are right in front of me, I just miss.
I can blame this on the hurry and hustle of life. Perhaps it’s my tendency to hyper-focus on certain things. Some would call this obsessive compulsive behavior. Whatever you name it, I tend to do it. And I miss things.
Poetry is one of those things I don’t see. It has been there all the time, quietly waiting, but I tend to put it aside for other more “important” pressing things. Saying, I’ll get to it later. Right now I’m too busy.
Now is the time. Inspired by Vicki VInton’s recent posts on poetry, I start searching. Poetry seems to get buried amongst everything else. Lost in between thick tomes, and many emails (thank you for the reminder Vicki, Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac,) it’s easy to overlook. Poetry is unassuming.
Plowing through my book shelves I find quite a few books of poetry. Each one signaling memories, like listening to old songs.
One book stands out, Wind Song by Carl Sandburg. It was published in 1960 and cost 45 cents. Some of the poems were published in 1916. It was purchased by my dad at a used book store. This book, from the heart of my library., is evidence of dad and his loving ways of scouring old book stores for just the right book.
In the front of the book is my name and home address in cursive. No date, but I’m guessing by the script I was probably 11 or 12 years old. The pages are yellowed and fragile. It smells like an old book store. 
Flipping through the pages I find this:
I know this poem and this picture I’d sketched, but I’d forgotten it.
Once loved, this collection now has the opportunity to be loved again.
I’m wondering what my much older eyes will see in these pages.
To Read To Write To Be 