It's been a long time since I was writing poetry on a regular basis, but when I think of the things for which I'm grateful, poetry is still very high on the list. Whether that's my favorite poems or ones I've written myself, I am so thankful that I've come to understand and value poetry. It's a shame that so many people dismiss it, thinking they don't "get" it, or Hallmark it, thinking that only rhyming cutesie-wootsie doggerel counts as poetry.
Surefire prescription to cure the ills of the spirit: read equal parts Elizabeth Bishop, e.e. cummings, Billy Collins, Jack Gilbert, Emily Dickinson, and Richard Wright. For severe cases, add in a dose of Walt Whitman, Shakespeare, Margaret Atwood, Rumi (the Coleman Barks translation), and Adrienne Rich. Repeat as needed until symptoms subside.
Once upon a time, my muse and I were in very frequent communication. I performed my poems at the local women's open mic and even got up on stage at few poetry slams. That feels like worlds away these days. I hope my muse is only on vacation, relaxing somewhere that isn't cluttered with the to-do lists of Stay-At-Home-Mom-dom, hanging out in mental landscapes that are not littered with the equivalent of imaginary Legos, painful to step on and difficult to avoid in the dark. I've been missing my muse more and more lately. I'm grateful that she was with me, so close, for so long. And I hope she comes back to stay, hopefully soon.