I’m drinking lemon zinger tea with honey, doing mindless reading (followed by mindful Qur’an – does that cancel the former?) and shocked I made it through today. Poetry month is officially over at school – we had little poetry cafes all around the school to culminate our dedication to all things poetic. I was in charge of one of the cafes and due to an overwhelming sudden attack of some sort of weird flu, it ended up looking like a grandmother’s teahouse – plastic flowers all around, flowery tablecloths, lace curtains (that’s right, lace curtains)…you get the picture. Yes, yes I just grabbed whatever was nearby and flung it together (please don’t ask why those items were nearby). But, I do get poetic points for the jazz playing when our cafe-goers walked in.

To welcome everyone to the cafe I wrote an extremely boring poem – its only redeeming feature was that it didn’t rhyme. That was my purpose: to prove to the children that good poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. Too bad it wasn’t good poetry that they heard. The quizzical, yet cute looks I received while I read I will blame on the overwhelming sudden attack of some sort of weird flu which was muffling my reading voice.

But, remember, there was jazz playing.