An elderly friend of mine (I can say that because she's even older than I am) was left with impaired ability to use the entire right side of her body when she suffered a stroke--ironically during surgery that was supposed to help prevent them. But her sense of humor was intact, and her story about learning to put on her panty hose was laugh-till-you-cry funny. She loved this poem with its over-the-top alliteration because she taped it to her bathroom mirror and read it aloud every morning until she learned again to pronounce her S's. When I wonder if my work is worthy, I remember her and this poem and realize that sometimes the poems we doubt most wind up being our best work for reasons we never dreamed.
Something in a soft spring night
Perhaps the sound of splitting seeds
Shooting through the soil,
Or silent step of summer coming
Soft upon the soaring moon.