Poet, Try

I wake up. A slight headache left me frustrated, but an advil, maybe two, brought contentment. Class one was droll. Class two cancelled. Class three make me hungry, but between class three and four, I have a poem to write. I make do with the time, and try my best to make the word I chose fit into a poetic scheme.

…His hooves make whisper 
with the rock and moss… 

In between the creativity and typing, I met two psych majors. They introduced themselves, though I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve forgotten their names. I remember their faces, as I often do. Hopefully I won’t blush if/when I have to admit I’ve forgotten. They gave me advice and they were kind, and helpful. Though I never asked for it. That was a curious realization.

…At night, wind rocks the pines
and his dreams whisper 
the truth of the fawn…

The gentleman approached me when he saw my poem on the computer screen. He probably recognized it 

because most

sentences don’t

look like this. 

He wanted to understand the form, and was curious to read what I had written, which I shared openly.

                        …He had searched for his essence with the whispers.

And all of nature’s patience 
had tried to steer him with moss …

He told me what classes to take, how to get on the good side with certain professors, and how to guarantee success by teaming with a professor to start research. He was displeased with my choice of psychological study, but, whatever. To each his own, I told him. 

…insisted the taiga
reveal truth in the whispers…

I was invited to lunch, but had to decline to finish my poe-em. I was happy with it as I read it on the way to class. The professor picked a stanza after her first read, and told me, “That’s poetry!”

 -Nicole O.