I love catching snowflakes. They sit in my palms like frosty flowers and if I am not quick enough, they melt away before I can truly capture them. They float into my thoughts like sparkling gifts of genius. Sometimes they come in a flurry of creativity. Sometimes they alight in a shy drizzle. When I sense them, I reach out and say, “Thank you God for sharing your snowflakes with me.”
Poetry is many things – a moment as honest as a teardrop, beauty as moving as waves washing the shoreline with lily shells, delight as sweet as a village festival lit up with rainbow lanterns. Poetry is as crystal as a stream. As you gaze past the ripples, you find the heart of the poet. Poetry is a question you never asked yourself. As you step into the footprints of a trail of thoughts, you find yourself in a beautiful place you never knew could be. And yes, poetry is also the rhythm of a silent drum-beat moving you through wording full of muted musicality.
I love words – big ones, little ones, funny ones, sweet ones. I love juggling them around and creating pretty sentences. If I circle them in a different pattern, I might string out a phrase bursting with drama, or one sugar-dusted with sweet sadness or yet again flowery prose that blossoms with poetry. I love lyrical words like “quaint”, “crystal” and “quest.”