I never excelled at writing

I'm an engineer

That's why I decided

To write poetry

Once a week

For a year.

 

Most poems didn't rhyme

Few were even good.

Wrote a haiku about stew

And a free verse about wood.

 

Now when I turn the pages

It's not the writing that I see

It's 52 clear windows

Into a young women's memory.

 

She finds brief love in winter

Marvels at the beauty of her mom

Hikes in pouring rain

Leaves her heart in Avon.

 

She lives in gratitude

Searches for God

In hard times

They hope to hold on.

 

So even though my pen doesn't sing

And I'm a master of DiffEQ

I am a poet

And you can poet too.

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In case you are curious

"The fennel bisque stews

But we do not call it stew

Untrustworthy soup"