When I have fears that what I share
will never touch this hurting world,
I turn to the wild violets growing again
from clumps of moss on the forest floor,
how they unfurl a few limp purple
petals that seem no match for spring
winds and rain, but still somehow trust
that mining bees and fritillaries will
find them and feed—the flowers open
anyway. I still remember standing in front
of that classroom full of expectant faces
in third grade for show and tell, gripping
the thin notebook page on which I’d
written my first poem. The words swirled
and swam until I closed my eyes and
recited them by heart. It was all I had
to give, and not nearly enough, I thought.
Applause thundered through the room.
—James Crews



