Give me a poet for a lover
whose words stroke me like velvet hands.
Word-tender caresses more reaching
than the caress of a mere mortal man.
Go in through the eyes of a poet
deep into her alphabet mind.
Ideas like flotsam and jetsam
dodge poetry fragments and lines.
trucks and cars.
As a friend, I had come to help
yet one more time
and I watched as she set
the cardboard box on the floor.
There was a man I knew
and just knowing him
made me think of poetry.
I dreamed I grew a money tree
outside in my yard.
My job was to care for it
and I worked very hard.
Life is full of crossroads,
the hard lefts or rights,
and little pathways
of curves, this way or that.
On warm dark nights I think I see
beneath the weeping willow tree,
the fairies dancing in the grass
on tiny feet that fly so fast.
Oh Mama look, a flutterby.
(her tiny hand held it out to me) .
She grasped it firmly in her fist,
afraid to set it free.
There's an angel in my pocket
who is watching over me,
just a little voice down deep inside
that I can hear, not see.