Poetry is an art. We all know that…it’s pounded into our heads beginning sometime in our tween years and the dread of it, in my case, continued on. Oh, I could write an essay about a poem I didn’t understand, and I could make the teacher laugh with delight. But, between you and me, I never really liked poetry.

It was just too, well, poetic. Too oblique. Too…dare I say it?…boring.

Until about five years ago (maybe it was ten…the years are melding all together as I look back), when an aunt of mine, who I deeply respect, shared some of her poetry with me. That gave me pause for thought. If this aunt loved poetry so deeply that she was writing it, perhaps I should give it a second look.

I’ve been keeping an eye on Poetry Friday over at Karen’s for a while now. And you know what? I enjoy it. Every. Single. Week. It’s the perfect complement to a cup of coffee, whether I read it on Friday or not.

Last week, Karen made a statement that effectively sealed the deal with me and Poetry Friday. “I can’t seem to stay away from Poetry Friday. I love that such diverse people choose to come together once a week and share a love of words, a passion for pronunciation, and awe at a phrase well-turned.”

My poetry appreciation is still pretty shallow, I admit. I have Walt Whitman’s complete works, though I’ve never made it past page 15. Last year, though, my aunt (she’s a sneaky thing, this aunt) gifted me with the Pushcart Prize for 2007 and 2006. There are poems in there, tucked in among the short stories. They’re poems that I sometimes like and sometimes don’t. This year, the same aunt gave me the 2008 Pushcart. I find myself savoring those poems, and Karen nailed why: I have a deeply rooted love of words, a passion for pronunciation, and awe at a phrase well-turned.

Laying in bed the other night during one of the many sleepless spells caused by little people, I realized that I have loved poetry for years. That love is what makes me pore over my own prose, nipping here, tucking there, making sure it sounds just so.

And so, thinking all week about poetry, when I stumbled on a collection of weather poems in a rather unlikely place, I knew I had found the poem I would share this week.

I remember reading this poem in school. I liked it for its brevity (back then, nothing was worse than a loooonnnnng poem) and for the imagery it evokes.

Now, reading it as spring takes hold all around me, I love its accuracy. This is just how it happens, right before all the schools get delayed – and then sometimes, if the kids are lucky, canceled.


by Carl Sandburg
THE fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Find more great poetry over at this week’s Poetry Friday roundup, hosted at Becky’s Book Reviews.