April is National Poetry Month, a month set aside to celebrate poetry and its vital place in our society. Launched by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, this month-long celebration has attracted millions of readers, students, teachers, librarians, booksellers, and poets.

Today, and for the next two Fridays, I will share my favorite poetry collections.

Today’s selection, Instructions for Traveling West, has been described as “a lush debut collection that examines what happens when we leave home and leap into the unknown.”

A master wordsmith, Joy Sullivan possesses that rare ability to transform life’s most ordinary moments into dazzling poetry that brims with emotion and insight. I was impressed by her vivid imagery, fresh metaphors, and the threads of humor and compassion that run throughout the collection.

Underlying each poem is the importance of listening to our deepest desires and embracing the call to reinvent ourselves. This is something Sullivan understands very well. In the midst of the pandemic, she left the man she planned to marry, sold her house, quit her corporate job, and drove west.

These poems, with their deeply personal and universal relatable themes, will resonate with women at every age and stage of life. A must-read book for anyone seeking clarity, courage, or a spark of reinvention.

Here’s one of my favorite poems:

Giving Notice

One day soon, you’ll rise from your desk or quietly excuse yourself
from the meeting or turn the car around in the middle of the street.
Anything may trigger it. An open window. A sunny day in April.
Daffodils panting in a mason jar. Call it madness. Call it glorious

disappearance. Call it locomotion. Do what you should have done
years ago. Let your body out to pasture. Fill your calendar with
nothing but sky. Surrender to the woods. To cicadas and sap
beetles. To the moths, the color of memory and dream. Wear
dusk like an ancient cloak. Hurry—

there’s still time to creature—to pluck all the wild cloudberries
and carry them home. Even now, you can hear coyotes crying
at the canyon’s edge. Find your first fang. Grow back your hackles
and howl. This was always your chorus, the mother tongue, a feral
hymn you know by heart.