Amy Lehigh
Poetry is not
a corset pulled too tight,
or hands wrapped
‘round your throat,
suffocating you.
Poetry is like a river—
it ebbs and flows,
washing away the shores
of expectation
and bringing fresh fish of ideas,
of vibrant colors and
impossible patterns.
Poetry is the silver-tongued storyteller,
making molehills into mountains,
and the catch of the day
into a kraken,
making children’s eyes go wide
and round as saucers.
Poetry is the one
who will listen to grandma’s stories
about the letters beneath the bed,
never opened,
and think of all the possibilities.
Poetry is the air you breathe,
careless and free
dancing with the wind
and howling with the storm.
Air never suffocated anyone.