i wrote a poem!

no, really.

i'm serious, guys, stop laughing.

i mean, yes, we all know that i like to read poetry, not write it. actually, we all know that my attempts to write poetry are usually...laughable failures, actually.

jeni's reaction probably summed it up the best: Wow...Seriously? That's kinda crazy. See what cabin fever's done to us.

(side note: doesn't she have wonderful grammar and punctuation in her texts? it warms to cold, dark cockles of my heart.)

well, i take no responsibility for this mess. blame s-la. she said e-mailed something that both annoyed me and reminded me that there's a fine line between an editor and a critic. usually i try to avoid being the latter.

anyway, now that i've given you that lovely long introduction to get your laughing well and done with, i present That One Poem Rachel Wrote While Watching The First Part of Miss Congeniality and Waiting For American Idol. that's it's working title, anyway, i'm open to suggestions (and lots and lots of criticism - i'm quite obviously an amateur when it comes to poetry) in the comments.

Poem With the Really Long Title (See Above)

your step falls on the snow,

feather-light, 

smooth like the glide

of a feather on wind.  

and like a bird

your gestures are small and

all-encompassing

(and say, look, 

look at me, i want to go south

for the winter).

your coat is red, red, red.

the birds (that have gone south for the winter) 

approve of your plumage,

glowing bright against the snow

as you walk up the hill. 

(up, up, up. 

you remember reading a book once,

long ago, 

about falling up

and wish it would happen now)

there are books in your bag,

the bag on your back , 

slung over one shoulder 

like your mother told you not to, 

but the book in your hands

is something precious. 

you think:

soon, soon. 

soon you will be in school and the room will be warm.

and maybe you will read your book, 

when the teacher's back 

is turned

soon you will be sitting

quietly

sneaking peaks out the window 

and hoping the snow will melt 

(it doesn't)

and soon, soon you will be leaving,

red coat on, 

backpack slung over your shoulder

to begin the walk again, 

up the tall hill

and back down again. 

and your step will fall on the snow, 

feather-light. 

will be back (and blogging for real), after american idol, which starts in two and a half minutes (yes, i love this show. no, i'm not ashamed)