I wrote a poem when I was nine

I wrote a poem when I was nine The teacher said it wasn’t mine She said I stole it from a book She said I was a lying crook I cried, I pleaded, it is mine She said “it’s not, you’re only nine” The other children laughed at me I almost gave up on poetry But no, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t quit I’d show her she was full of it I’d write of sun’s, and rains, and squalls Of winters, summers, springs and falls I’d write until the readers wept I’d write while other writers slept I’d write in rhyme and verses blank And someday I’d go back and thank That pencil stub, that yellowed page For I now write in my old age Of life’s forever breaking waves Of life’s N/A’s and treasured FAVES