I used to run my fingers along the words of poems.
The poets had a way of praising the things that made them feel.
They had a way of showing us how some things are above us.
Feelings and emotions— they would make us feel like no one else.
But there was one thing I never understood.
Nature is beautiful.
I got that.
But in how many ways can you tell us the sky is blue, the leaves are green and the flowers move to their own music?
I saw it but I couldn’t feel it.
I used to brush off poetry as something beyond me.
Until I started making my own.
From what I feel.
Until I started really seeing things.
And appreciating the overlooked.
There is so much joy and pleasure in the world.
Unseen and unnoticed.
We humans have a way of consistently creating things.
But we ignore what already exists.
I still don’t understand everything you were writing about Mr. Wordsworth.
But one look at the sky
And I get why you wrote it.