The saddest words ever written or said? It's a matter of perception.

 

    Out of the blue, I needed to read some poetry, which is weird, because I rarely read poetry, nor do I write poetry. I have penned a few verses mostly in song, but I am not a poet. Nevertheless, when an inner voice commands, I comply. So, I searched for a book I bought in my twenties, back in the day when I belonged to a mail-order book club. 

    After scanning several of my bookshelves, I held in my hands The Treasury of American Poetry, selected by Nancy Sullivan. I laid it atop the tall stack of books on my nightstand. 

    That night, I turned the pages to find few lines that held my attention. Undeterred, I plowed through the murk, knowing that in those eight-hundred and thirty-eight pages, I would find, well, I don't know what I expected to find, but when I found it, I would know. Over the next couple of weeks, I touched the poems of Anne Bradstreet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, only to wonder if I could possibly continue on this curious mission. 

    Then, I hit pay dirt.