I told my family I started to write poetry
As an exercise in imperfection.
I’ve created something every day (but one),
Knowing that no poem will be perfect.
It stretches me.
My sister said, And you could even let it go
That you missed a day. Why not exercise
Your imperfection there, too?
I hadn’t thought of that.
It stretches me in ways I didn’t know I needed
To be stretched.
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