Magic in Costa Rica

Puzzles and Poetry

I opened my laptop and stared at the blank page on my screen. For two days, I had desperately been trying to come up with an idea for what to write for my first assignment in Mr. Miller's writing class. I never had this much trouble coming up with ideas before, and it was now the night before it was due and I still had nothing. I thought maybe it was because I had never written poetry before, but in reality, it was probably because I had hardly written anything since the last chapter of Magic in Costa Rica, and I was nervous to start again, especially since this would be graded by Mr. Miller.

I groaned; maybe I was overthinking this. Actually, that could be the problem. I hardly ever thought about what I was going to write before I started when I was writing Magic in Costa Rica, maybe I should employ the same method while writing poetry. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to let the words come to me as they always did. Finally, after a few minutes of sitting with my hands poised over the keyboard, I began to type:

The world is a jigsaw puzzle

With pieces that don't fit.

With disjoint curves and corners,

But I can't seem to quit.

I toil day in and day out,

Never once able to cease,

For each time I can't find a place

For the very final piece.

That piece just doesn't belong,

Try and try as I might.

I'll bend it, even break it,

But it puts up quite a fight.

It's too round for a corner,

But it's too sharp for the middle,

I just can't ever squeeze it in,

No matter how much I fiddle.

I carry it in my pocket

In case I find a place

To put this poor and lonely piece,

But I've never found a trace.

Then one day I spotted,

Lying on the floor,

Another puzzle piece

That I had never seen before.

I snatched it from the ground

And I couldn't help but laugh

When I realized that this piece

Was the other's second half.

I put the two together

And felt so bittersweet

When I stepped back from the puzzle

And saw it was complete.

* * *

"Jigsaw..." Mr. Miller raised one eyebrow as he read the title of my poem aloud. I came in early to hand it in before class. He made a face. "I hate puzzles."

"Me too," I laughed, "that's sort of what this is about, in a way."

"You wrote a poem about how much you hate puzzles?" he smirked.