A lot of times we think of poetry as something that requires a big event like a heartbreak or a revolution, but lately I’ve been finding that the most honest verses are hidden in the mundane. There is a certain kind of silence that exists just before a poem begins. It isn’t the absence of sound, but rather the gathering of it— the steam rising from a morning cup of tea, the weight of my granddaughter’s hand in mine, or how the light catches a stray thread on the rug.
Continue readingFinding Poetry in The Quiet Moments
