Poetry

I spent the lunch hour out in my car, avoiding my co-workers. I feel an anti-social mood descending, and I am accepting of it. I need some me time, some time to reflect, think, ponder, plot. Anyway, I was in the car, and I grabbed a book of poetry that I had tossed in there months ago, an old yellowed paperback with a thirty-five cent original pricetag on it. I found it at the school's garage sale last spring, and bought it on impulse.

So, I am in the car, tumbing through the pages, and I start coming across all these poems and poets that I love. Noyes' "The Highwayman", Frost's "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening", Shakespeare's sonnets, Longfellow, Browning, Keats, the list goes on and on. I was reminded again of how much I love words, and how certain phrases catch me, captivate me, and carry my mind away. It was a near-perfect way to spend an hour. The time flew, and I was almost late for class. Frankly, I did not care.

Poetry is well-suited to introspection and reflection. Perhaps it was just what I needed.