WHAT POETS DO

Photo by R. Murre

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

The poet walks alone,

listening, dreaming, watching,

because this is what poets do

and centuries are passing

with every breath she takes,

 and stars are being born,

and all around her

women are birthing new dreamers,

their miniature heart-fists pulsing

with desire, eager to begin

transcribing the music

and laments of love...

~  mimi

The little fragment of verse at the top was the first poem I fell in love with--in high school--and is probably the reason I became a poet...  

FORTY DAYS

Photo by S. Auberle

FORTY DAYS TILL SPRING

Foxes are pairing up now;

coyotes singing their love songs;

birds in dull winter coats

dreaming, perhaps, of nuptial plumage.

Peaks and valleys of frost

line the windows this morning.

Outside gems sparkle

in the tiny snow tracks

of a mouse scurrying to shelter.

The sky is that diamond blue,

light cascading down

the tapestry of branches

black and bare for now,

green only a memory

except in wind-twisted cedars

and the winter palace

of bay ice—marble floored

in pale jade and sapphire,

but seeds are stirring now

awakening beneath the earth

their verdant fire rising

slowly, ever so slowly

in the lingering light

of these forty days till Spring.

an old poem, published in a slightly different form in "The Clearing Speaks"

PAINTING THE SKY

My digitalized photo of a stamp--artist unknown

sixteen degrees

this eighth day of February

and about this time

winter begins to hurt

but the black brush

of crow wings

still inks this sky

a Chinese painting

in flowing progress

cracked voices singing

all is joy...

~  mimi

slightly altered version of poem which originally appeared in Crow Ink