I made a second copy of all my poems ,
Took them in a folder to the park,
There I clumsily let the folder fall,
My poems fell to the ground and the strong wind blew them here and there.
I looked around to see the destiny of my poems,
Some children collected them to make tiny boats to play in the pond,
Other children used them to make aeroplanes,
Some picnickers used them as wraps for their spoons and bowls,
One cleaner collected some and dumped them in the trash bins,
But, one young girl,
She picked one of my poems and read it,
Quickly she collected as many as she could and tucked them into her pockets,
This poem is awesome she muttered,
I will read the rest at home.
Poetry cannot die.
9/12/2020