Going through some boxes today, I came upon some of my earliest poetry, written when I was in 9th grade.
It made me think about how much we can learn about who a person is now by seeing who they were in the past.
WATCHING: A HAIKU
Watching dying fire
of January embers
floating into space.
GOING HOME
The light and airy cinnamon smell
of baking bread in Grandma's old wood stove
reminds me of things that I could never tell
as I look out across the apple grove.
Walking through the door that leads me back home
brings back old memories of my childhood.
I wonder why I ever left to roam
from my grandparents' house beyond the woods.
Grandma shuffles in to give me a hug
and to welcome me back after all these years.
The small hand of a child gives me a tug
and I feel my eyes fill with bitter tears.
I suddenly realize that child is me.
From my childhood's grip I'll never be free.
Here endeth tonight lesson.
