I wish that my poetry were a summer’s day
The sun overhead, interrupted by only wisps of clouds
A breeze that isn’t even a breeze, but a whisper.
Knowing how it would feel to be a cat outstretched belly up in the bright windowsill.

If I could, I would make it chocolate
Melt it in a bain marie
Let the words flow together until there is no other way to be
No matter the color, the flavor, enjoyable by nearly all.

It would be the essay question on a test
The one you prepared for, the one you know
When you answer, the words flow onto the paper
No time restraint limits your ever flowing mind.

Instead, my poetry is hail
It is course, cacophonous, a wake up call
It can shatter windows, cause unimaginable damage
Nobody makes hail forts or splashes in puddles of hail.

It is sauerkraut
Sure, a few enjoy its harsh taste
But when you ask somebody what their favorite food is
They never say sauerkraut.

That one multiple choice question
You are torn between B and D
Both seem equally correct answers
You choose the incorrect one.

Yet my sister plays in the hail at 15 years old
The ice bounced off her toughened skin
She would grab fistfuls of it and throw them in the air, let them drop onto her tender scalp
Just to know that she is alive and can feel.
My dad loves perogies more than life itself
He savors the flavor on his tongue
And puts that sauerkraut on most meat he eats
He is definitely bold.

My best friend never minds picking the wrong answer
She loves to learn, to see her mistakes
Can see where she went wrong and how to make it right
She is accepting and knows how to correct her faults.

My poetry is not the perfect summer day
But the tough and willing enjoy the hail.
It will never be rich, expensive chocolate
The brave will see this beauty.
This is not a test where one will earn a perfect score
The willing will make it through.