ivy leaves.

photography was merely a happenstance for me. writing is what i had dreamed of since i was in the 3rd grade. laura numroff came to my elementary school to promote her new book, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. She read it to us and I bought a copy. I got to meet her and she signed my book. That was the day I decided to be a writer, more specifically, an author of books for children. in 4th grade i wrote a fictional story about digging to china. it was selected and published in my elementary school's literary magazine and put up for a national award, which i did not win.

I never thought that I would one day write anything other than stories filled with adventures to the beach, lost kites, a trip to the zoo, or a new puppy. photography came into the picture in middle school & the focus shifted. i continued to write in my leisure time, using it as an outlet. eventually, photography became a chore because it became a job. writing will always be my first love.

i wrote this poem in the fall of 2005 for my creative writing poetry class.
our final was two parts:
1.) a collection of our works from the entire semester, which would be one poem per week.
2.) we had to submit 4 pieces of our work to Ivy Leaves, which is a publication that the University puts out every year. a selected panel chooses between art & writing samples to be featured.

i had two poems selected & published in Ivy Leaves.
this particular poem was chosen by the faculty & read at convocation in the spring of 06, which is an interesting choice of a literary work to be read to a class of college graduates as they embark into the real world, considering it is a dark piece.

my accomplishments are far and few,
but this,
this is what i consider my finest hour.



Afternoon At The Lake

I sit on the dock in late August
breathing in thick, humid, sweet summer air
dipping my feet slowly in the lake
warm like my bath, dead water
my murky green reflection stares
back at me; and as my feet stand weighted
on the rotting wood, the sharpest splinter
pierces through my thick flesh
as words sometimes do, certain broken words
like failure and commitment,
shattered, mangled oak,
which cuts deep, hits the bone, and stings
in the fresh, bittersweet, heart-break
of the lake in late August.