Poem of the Week
Each week we feature a poem by one of our authors. Take a few moments to enjoy it. And then, if you'd like to pass it along to a friend who could use a pause-poésie in their day, click on the "share this poem" link below.
At my next incarnation
At my next incarnation, when asked
what creature I want to be
I'll choose the hummingbird
for good looks
and the taste of nectar
or the eagle.
There I'll find a faithful husband,
learn the hard blood craft
of a predator, dance
cartwheels in the sky.
At my next incarnation
I am tumbling through the grass
blades and come upon
the Small House in the Clearing.
A bouquet of Indian corn
nailed to a wooden door.
Through the glass:
shelves of books,
a guitar with a long black neck and gleaming
belly, a stove
for the arts of fire.
Who makes all this?
I want to be a maker, too.
I'll be one of these.
The surrounding trees are invaded then
by a wingless flock,
each one proclaiming louder than the next,
the incessant
cry of the personbird:
it's me! it's me!
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