In my carefree youth, I wanted to be a poet.  I had three poems published in a “little” called Eads Bridge, and thereafter considered myself established.  But that turned out to be my ten minutes of poetry fame.

Occasional phrases linger after failed attempts.  Every few years I try again, and for it have nothing to show but those snatches of words strung together.  They crowd in my head, waiting to be used.  One or the other floats to the surface, waving itself before my eyes — “use me, use me”.

Today’s teaser:  “Beginnings are like teardrops, exquisite in their formation”.

I look around my house.  Tables have been shifted to different rooms. Lights twinkle through new lampshades.  Layers of dust yield to wipe after wipe of the rag.  I face the north window again, the Lenovo open in front of me.  In years gone by I wrote at this window every night, early each morning, in sleepless hours and tormented afternoons.

Beginnings are like teardrops, exquisite in their formation. . .

The next line eludes me.  It’s in some notebook or journal, perhaps deeper in a stubborn patch of memory.  I’m feeling it though.  Not for poetry, perhaps; I proved myself to be a three-trick pony in that regard.   Maybe. . . maybe. . . on a fresh page of my life, written in bold ink.

Maybe.

It’s the ninth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

 

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. ”    

 

Note:  I have seen this quoted attributed to both Rumi and Washington Irving.

 I certainly did not author it, but it speaks to me.