The challenge was to write one poem every day for the month of April. Thirty poems in thirty days.
Before I paused, I did miss a couple days, and on the following days I would write two.
I wrote on a total of twenty-one days out of thirty. I missed nine days.
I wrote a total of twenty-six poems out of thirty. I missed four poems.
Does this mean I have nine days in which to write four poems? Does it mean I have four days in which to write nine?
I'm going to write poetry for nine more days and hope that four decent pieces come out of the mix. Cuz why not?
Today, 1 May, day one of nine, is from prompt #1 here:
I believe in oak,
spiral leaves with lobbed margins,
serrated leaves with smooth margins,
flowers called catkins that give birth to acorns,
bitter fruit in tiny cups.
I believe in holding on to dead leaves
until spring gives you new ones.
I believe in strength and resistance
and making liquids more precious
just by holding them a while. I believe
in pine, in fire and resin, in needles
and cones, in growing fast
and dense; I believe in hickory,
in being native to the whole world
and being prized world-wide, in giving
foundations to stand upon and flavor
to your food. I believe in pecan.
I believe ash can betray you.
I believe teak should never be broken.
I believe mahogany should be treasured
and respected, not just for its strength, not just
for the beauty of its song. I believe cedar
is a word you can smell when you hear it,
I believe maple is a word you can taste
when you hear it, I believe sawdust
is sacred. I believe the sound
of a bandsaw is a fine violin, a nailgun
is a snare drum, and sandpaper
sounds finer than the ocean at night.
I believe in carpentry. I believe
it is possible to build a whole house
from nothing, to build a whole home
from a house, to build a whole family
from a home, I believe dovetailing makes
the strongest connections, and there
are also joints named knee joints,
lap joints, and my father had knees
and a lap and my father knew how
to build a house and the value of each
type of wood and my father was sacred
as sawdust and strong as hickory
or oak; I believe father is a word
you can feel when you hear it.