THERE WILL ALWAYS BE POETS

Photo/Collage by S. Auberle

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE POETS

Blow, west wind
that the small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again...

- Anonymous, 14th Century

A woman stands alone on the shore
immersed in the colors of clouds,

in light streaming down from them,
in the passage of a dark ship on the horizon.

She listens to waves kissing the rocks,
to the whisper of gull wings,

to a small, frozen rain striking
the earth beneath her feet.

She has learned, finally, to call
herself poet--that unceasing tumult

of words, whispering and
shouting in her to come forth

will have its way and she imagines
women birthing new poets,

their miniature heart-fists
pulsing with unborn music,

eager, like her, to lament and celebrate
all the ancient passages of love.

- mimi