There are pretty words,

she said,
and then there’s poetry.

There are pretty words which capture intense feeling exquisitely,

and then there’s poetry.

I suppose that I am a child of the seventies, still believing that my words are worth writing down and calling poetry.

They make sense in my head. They make sense when I hear them aloud in my head. The pretty words give voice to pieces of my heart that I can’t show otherwise and I thought that was poetry but perhaps it is just journaling. In public. Hmmm. If I threw in some random line breaks, that wouldn’t help either.

It’s true. I am someone’s great aunt.
And great aunts who write poetry are definitely a thing.
And the poetry of great aunts is cringe worthy
(and out of sync with the world, but that’s all right).
Fact: my great-niblings are truly delightful people whom I am glad to know and whom I am glad to count as mine.

Conclusion: it is a privilege to write great-aunt-poetry
and to put the pretty words in an order that pleases me
and shows a little of my heart.

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