If I've learned one thing in February, it's that I'm glad it's not Poetry Month. Sure, it starts out with promise - you've got Valentine's Day excitement and inspiration for love poems, but it goes downhill after that until you're left with gray grossness. Or a blank page, and the worry that this is just a waste of time for both you as a writer and any would-be readers.
Then you fill that blank page with words, put it out into the universe, and trust that any honest practice is never a waste.
In February:
Will you be my Valentine?
These four weeks don't have anything on me.
This is probably the last big snow of the winter.
Let's go ice skating!
It hurts to go outside.
These blues might last forever.
How can four weeks take so long?
The sky, after it snows:
A blue that lasts forever.
A sun, oblivious to the vacation it's on.
There can't possibly be more snow up there.
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