I wonder, sometimes, if I have lived enough of life to write poetry. I haven’t studied with great writers or philosophers, or sailed on ships through stormy seas, or scaled high mountains. I have walked barefoot in muddy grass, tasted fresh snow, I’ve felt every ounce of pain and power as I've birthed two children into the world. I’ve taken splinters from my feet with a needle and a magnifying glass, searched for sea-glass on pebbly beaches, cried in my mother’s arms, tucked a letter into my father’s shirt pocket just before the crematorium. I once took an overnight train, slid into the sleeper car bunk. I woke early and held open the corner of the curtain, nose to the glass, and watched the sunlight spread over the fields as we drew closer to the station.
Hi Laura
Plenty!! You could squeeze a lifetime of Poetry out of that.
Emily Dickinson did so, marvellously, from a far less expansive life....
So - keep living. Keep loving. Keep writing...
Best Wishes from Australia - Dave :)