Ever since I was the smallest child, I held poetry in my fingers- feeling the smooth, soft pages with hands that wrestled with puppies and created mud castles- planted seeds with loving care and terrorized beatles...

When I was five years old, I devoured poetry... I read as much as I could- when I was eight, I began on Emily Dickinson. It was a love affair of the finest makings- I read one poem, and my world changed.

Re-re-re-re-re-reading some of her greatest works in one of my old volumes sends shivers through me. Poetry, to me, is a cross between the sweetest music and the most charged touch... There are so many emotions and passions in each line of a poem- the imagery and words alone paint something that every reader sees differently... such a special kind of magic.

Last night, I read Jenn one of my favorite poems- breathless and charged, I spoke each line as my beloved icon might have... so long ago. Sharing those lines fired something deep within me... The poetry moves the speaker- through her mouth, life is born in soft whispers and inflections... Words that were meant for another- now changed to be for another lover... another time.

Deep black of ink and milk of page might have stretched before her vision- but now, I held the crinkled pages of a much-loved book- holding it up with painted fingernails and a diamond ring that pressed against those pages, as my sweetheart leaned against my shoulder, holding Roane close. The baby let out a meow as I spoke a line and I chuckled.

It had just been pouring- and the earth smelled fresh and new outside. Even this was captured in the words... As only words can capture.