The title is weird. I know. But the poem it belongs to—a poem that I will soon pen—will be ecstatic.

Poetry has become my new best friend. It's all I think about nowadays! Truly. I imbue magic into my work, and when I read it, I feel like I've time traveled into the past, to the very moment I had generated the initial ideas of a poem.

Wind, Dear, Wind is going to be my 18th professional poem.

I've written about this before, and can't stop my frustrated, impatient fingers from doing it again: beginner poets in this country can't thrive.

I'm going to have to be the first, I guess, who does.