An Ars Poetica

You are my gift, dear poem,
you are like my breath; you wake me,
and sing me to sleep.

You are my gift, dear poetry,
you are like my life’s blood; you energize me
and carry me on.

You are my gift, dear writing,
you are like my body; you move me
and support my soul.

You are my gift, dear Giver of gifts,
you are the Poet; you create
and you keep on creating.

Suffer the Ache, Sweet Babies

When earth finally moves again
and soil gives up after soaking rain,
we watch seeds pods crack open,
spindly white stems humbly folded,
their heads still buried in dirt.

I marvel at miracles,
little babes surrounding me
like folds of skirts, hugging my legs
and screaming all sorts of nonsense
because they are tired and hungry.

I watch them now, their heads bent low,
their stems spindly and white, and I
wonder how much rain it will take to soften
their earth, if they will keep their heads buried
or suffer the ache of reaching upward.