Safe and Sound

“I bet you’re not going to open me,” the journal seemed to sneer.

It sat on the top shelf, judging my shyness.

I had flipped through it many times before with a pencil in my hand,

Telling myself that today was the day.

The day I would write something.

But it never happened.

The pages remained unblemished, pure white like clean cotton sheets.

But one day I decided not to let that journal get the best of me.

One day I took it on a field trip to my backyard.

And I penned a three line poem about a red robin perched on a branch of our oak tree.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Then I wrote a poem about that oak tree.

And sooner than you could say “I love poetry,” two poems became four,

And four poems became eight.

I wrote without thinking, producing poems like a factory.

The girls I met at my new high school became a poem.

A huge snowfall on the eve of a snow-day became a poem.

My bad habit of biting my nails became a poem.

I started to grab for my journal after school faster than I would grab for a snack.

I knew my thought were safe and sound hidden in the pages of my journal.

As my journal filled up, I grew up.

Poetry was my comfort when I felt rejected in seventh grade.

It was my inspiration when I isolated myself in eighth grade.

It was my pride when I began to share my poems in ninth grade.

It was my self-discovery when I was confused in tenth grade.

It was my sanity when I was at my wit’s end in eleventh grade.

What will poetry be for me this year?