I began writing poems at age six. Inside Big Chief notepads. Coloring book pages. Discarded Olson’s Supermarket brown paper bags. I just had to get the words out. I didn’t worry about saving them. Where would I have put that mountain? Somehow I knew the feelings would remain. And the words, well I still possessed all the letters of the alphabet, and am able to form any imaginable sentence on the page, so didn’t I, don’t I, indeed, still have all the poems? Just in different order.

I like to think of them running around inside of me. Like recess on the playground of Washington Elementary. Giggling and twirling from monkey bars to swings. From squared off bases to rubber balls. I don’t remember every game, every score, but oh, I remember the play. That’s how the poems, the dancing words, live inside of me. 

Some ask, How do you write every day? I think, Would you ask a six year old if they ran out of things to play? I guess I just wake up and hear the bell ring, releasing me to the playground. The words fumble and tumble beside me. And I play.