I used to write poems when I was in college. Spent a lot of time in coffee shops writing crappy verses, trying to find myself, my voice, as a writer.
I don’t write poems much anymore, but this one came to me today, so I thought I’d share.
You used your finger to draw an intricate picture in the sand.
A hero with a sword, a castle, a horse,
bushes and shrubs and trees and,
off in the distance, a looming dragon.
You spent minutes that lasted hours
working on this scene,
pouring yourself into the last detail
as if it were essential for your survival.
When you finished, you stood and pointed,
asking me to come look,
to share in what you’d created
because what is a creation if it isn’t shared?
I marveled at your imagination,
the nimble corners of your mind where
dragons and spaceships and heroes dwell,
and at your desire to bring them all to life.
I marveled further still as the waves licked
the edges of your drawing,
first erasing the dragon,
then the trees,
then the castle,
the hero and his sword,
until your hard work had been noiselessly erased
and replaced with reset sand.
You didn’t cry.
You merely sat down,
lowered your finger,
and began to work again –
on a bigger, better picture from a
bigger, better idea.