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.
I dreamed I grew a money tree
outside in my yard.
My job was to care for it
and I worked very hard.
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.
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.