"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." -Carl Sandburg
A Michigan winter's morning.
A long walk to the bus stop.
Bundled against the cold, I trudge down the frozen lane past drifting snow.
Under the frosty fingers of trees that brush each other over my head, I am surrounded by the white woods.
Little six-year-old me is caught unaware by this wild beauty,
Much to my surprise, a poem suddenly jumps into my head.
Well. The first line of a poem anyway:
With an icicle for a spoon and a snowball for his bowl
I see him right there in the field, smiling as I walk by, preparing for his icy breakfast.
I know he sees me too, and understands. My snowman is real to me.
Morning after morning, as I pass along this same place on the way to school
The idea of this poem dances again and again in my mind, the snowman as real as ever
And I understand that some day very soon
I'm going to write out the fullness of this snowman's poem.
I'm excited to bring him to life.
Wondrously, just a few weeks later, my teacher asks us to write a poem.
Eagerly, I set down the words that flashed into my thoughts that morning in the lane.
With an icicle for a spoon and a snowball for his bowl
I find great joy in the telling.
Days pass. I wait excitedly to see my grade, to hear my teacher's praise for my poem.
Anticipation builds. I'm sure she will love it; I expect her validation.
Now she slowly makes her way along my row of desks, handing us back our work.
I reach up to take my poem from her outstretched arm and look at her red remarks.
She didn't like it.
I am stunned. Upset. Confused. Hurt, I was so sure my poem was a good poem.
Red-cheeked, I stuff the paper into my desk, and try to understand what this means.
Many years have passed since that day, but I still often think of my snowman poem.
Only today do I finally make sense of what happened.
My teacher thought I wrote that poem to satisfy her assignment.
But really, I wrote it for myself.
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