Recently, I came across boxes of my old writings. Many of my old stories were on floppy disks (whew, I’m dating myself here.) Some stories were stored away for good reason (so angsty!) and others are surprising diamonds-in-the-rough in need of a bit of editing.
I by no means consider myself a poet and have the utmost respect for those that are masters of the poetry medium. But this Erin-poem stood out to me more than most, as I believe I remember the day I wrote it, and my state of mind that day, and the thoughts that quietly lingered there.