Do You Find Poetry Or Does It Find You?

Are you a pack rat? I might have a few of those tendencies. I try hard to keep my spaces clear of cluttered stuff but let’s face it, it’s an ongoing battle. It ebbs and flows like many other things in life. I’m pretty sure that stress levels are a direct proportion.  I come by this character trait honest. My mother is the queen of pack ratness. (Sorry mom but hang on I’m going somewhere with this.)  If my Mom wasn’t a pack rat, there are some important milestone in my life cards, notes, pictures, school work that would have been lost to file 13.  Within a plastic box, I was able to rummage through items worked on as far back as 26 years ago. (I’m 40 this year and I don’t much care who knows it.)  Anyhoo, this treasure box or makeshift time capsule has things like drafting drawings that are pre-CAD as well as beginning CAD.
Another item in the capsule was a notebook of poetry.  As I flipped thru the collections of poems within the notebook, I was stunned to see a theme that still carries through me today.  What would that soapy persona Dr. Flower think if she saw these? Decide for yourself:

CROCUS
The crocus had slept in his little
Round house so soundly the whole winter through;
There came a tapping-t’was Spring at the door!
Up! Up! We are waiting for you!

The crocus peeped out from his little
brown house and nodded his little head;
“Good morning, miss snowdrop!
And how do you do this fine, chilly
morning?” he said.
-Sarah J. Day

Go, Ploughman, Plough
Go, ploughman, plough
The mearing lands,
The meadow lands,
The mountain lands.
All life is bare
Beneath your share,
All love is in your lusty hands.
Up horses, now!
And straight and true
Let every broken furrow run:
The strength you sweat
Shall blossom yet
In golden glory to the sun.
-Joseph Campbell

Child on Top of a Greenhouse
The wind billowing out of my britches,
My feet crackling splinters of glass and dried putty,
The half grown chrysanthemums staring up like accusers.
Up through he streaked glass, flashing with light.
A few white clouds all rushing eastward,
A line of elms plunging and tossing like horses,
And everyone, everyone, pointing upward and shouting.  -unknown

Happy Washing

~Regina