Twenty days of writing a poem every day! You're doing it! You're almost to the end - you've got this!
In celebration, let's write a love poem to ourselves today - to a specific body part, or to our entire self. An ode to you, in honor of doing the hard work of poeming every day.
It's intense to write a poem extolling your body (keep working on that self love!), so if you really, really really just can't today (do it anyway!), write a poem about someone else's features instead (and then tomorrow, write about you!).
Or try writing a dispassionate (zen koan) love poem to a specific body part, like this poem by Jane Hirshfield:
A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.
Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.
A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body.
Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin's smoothness,
The maple's green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.
A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question.
Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs.
You could also accompany your poem with a photo or drawing, if you'd like.