Wednesday, February 27, 2013


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...  


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