Digging To Find Myself. By Rachel Bolin.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. ~Seamus Heaney
I have never really been very into poetry. I have phases where I have found solace in the words of poets. Robert Frost when I was at the ripe old age of 13, and I had a fleeting love affair in my teenage years of angst with Charles Bukowski. But I never understood it. I could relate to some of the passages and with bits and pieces of them, but as a whole it was completely outside my realm of comprehension. Then I discovered this man from the green hills of Northern Ireland. Where, even to this day, I would swear part of my heart lies, even though I have never stepped foot onto its soil.
I have always, and I mean always, been obsessed with the…
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