Because poetry can heal the soul

I bought a book recently -- a dusty collection of the poems of W.H. Auden tucked away on a clearance used book rack -- simply because of the inscription.

For Heather,
Because poetry can heal the soul.
Love, Jason

I may never read the book itself, as I find I don't much care for Auden's brand of rhyming poetry. But it was worth the $2.99 I paid to have something I can carry to remind me that, yes, poetry can heal the soul. I don't know who Jason was or why his gift was discarded, but whoever he is, wherever he is, I love him for writing that simple statement, six compact words conveying all the truth and beauty that I, a stranger, needed in a moment of darkness.

I've been experiencing one of those long, cold winters of the soul, heartache blocking the sun like a steady gray sleet. But like the first desert wildflowers pushing their way to renewed life along my favorite hiking route, I am emerging to feel the warm spring air. My mind is in tenuous bloom, with petals of essays, poems and stories unfolding from long-dormant shoots. They're still fragile and will require tender care to reach full blossom. They could easily be trampled by rough, careless feet, or driven back into sleep by a sudden snap of cold. But in this moment, it feels impossibly good to have petals stretching their way into the sun, to have creativity healing the soul.