Like a vintage letter,

so fragile to open,

I admire its beauty for what it brings.

 

Opening

I read the lines,

using my voice first,

getting the rhythm

and style mapped out.

After finishing,

I read it again,

instinct taking over,

“What was the Poet trying to say?”

 

Poetry written—

is a soul, encased in a locked box of words,

waiting to be seen

by those who understand

it.

 

Like holding a butterfly,

I admire the seconds and minutes spent

with it and then release it back to the world.

 

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