I write more poetry in summer than other seasons. Perhaps it is because in summer my husband removes the giant tropical plant that has been with him longer than I have, and is housed in an urn that weighs about the same as my car. This plant is ceremoniously carried outside when summer's heat is a sure thing and then the white bookcase, where most of my poetry books live, is free to access. Now, in yet iffy weather with possible frosts and the long chills of spring, I am crouched on the rug trying to snake a hand behind the urn and retrieve various books...and I end up with the unexpected, a notebook filled with gathered children's poems, Necessary Light by Patricia Fargnoli, Weather Central by Ted Kooser, all good things, but not the thing I set out for...no matter. I have earlier already sent two poems to a friend - a poem is a good envelope to wrap your heart in.
Once you dip into a poem, your mind kicks into poem mind, and like a Zen mediation, tosses the monkey mind with all its annoying and mindless prattles off over the hedge for awhile. Reading poems sets your mind to writing poems. Gets you thinking poem mind, better mind, connected to your soul mind. All good things worth doing and worth waiting for - like summer. When the plant gets moved - it gets sun, I get poetry. Good deal.