Inspirations and Illuminations

I was looking through a journal entry from last year, and it made me laugh.  I was working through some journal prompts, hoping for inspiration, and thinking that if I could at least write something, it would be better than nothing.  That day's prompt was to write a rhyming poem about a poem, and here's what I came up with: A poem is something you write About trees or your love or the night And after it’s finished, Imagination diminished, You sit back and hope it don’t bite. © Pamela Roy Howell, 2024 I've never been much of a fan of writing poetry.  Honestly, I'm not all that crazy about reading most of it.  There are a few that I enjoy, mostly written by Shel Silverstein or Ogden Nash.  A couple might be favorites simply because I can say that I have them memorized:  "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost and "Richard Cory" by Edward Arlington Robinson.  In general, though, if there's not a melody, poetry is not my favorite genre...

Today is my last day of being 54.  At 2:28 tomorrow morning, my odometer flips to 55.  I'm not sure how I feel about this.  40 was traumatic.  I cried a lot.  At 45 I still had a little one to navigate through growing up and finding herself in the world, so my focus was anywhere but the number I had to put on forms.  50 happened during the whole COVID mess.  Disappointing that this milestone had to go by without the celebration I'd been looking forward to.  And now 55.  I'll say all the things everyone says, because, why not:  I don't feel a day over 30 (except for that pinched nerve in my back that just happened while I was brushing my teeth this morning).  If 50 is the new 40 then 55 is the new 45, right?  Maybe in terms of life expectancy, but 50 is still 50.  I'm growing old gracefully, embracing the wrinkles (laugh lines) and gray hair (silvery sparkles), but I did go pink for awhile earlier this year.  My memory...