empty shell, these hands, a praying whisper...
a dew glitter, frozen dawn, the bird flies.
waving branches, a single tree, so unclear,
empty shell, these hands, a praying whisper...
shattered threshold, rendered abyss, the skies,
blind hands, trembling flame, the river dries.
empty shell, these hands, a praying whisper...
a dew glitter, frozen dawn, the bird flies.

Where are the words, the ones with sparks
to set a fire in wooden hearts
and set to work my wooden tongue
with all the wit that they impart ?

where do those words that all belong
in works of poetry come from ?
I know them only as the guests
that visit me by book and song;

my own words bear the awkwardness
of someone starting to undress
with clumsy thumbs and wooden hands
and should perhaps stay unexpressed..

It rains.
A truffled scent
glitters
in dead leaves,
naked trees.
Transudation
into the depths
of the night.

I never asked you to write me love poems.

You are a philosopher
and I am a poet.
I’m fairly certain that poets shouldn’t walk together
someone ought to keep their feet on the ground.
  

We think in different languages you and I.
You speak in the stoic's tongue
and I converse in butterflies and chicory root.
Your ideas are concrete and stone
and mine are dandelion seed and cloud stuff.

You are ******* me sometimes.
The words you don't say.
The tone your voice takes
when your feelings are raw -- slices deep.

Do you know what you do to me
even when I don't say it?
Because I guess my silence
says something in the end.
I'm not sure the child in me has words for it.
Sometimes I just have nothing to say,

I want to be still.
I want to listen to the rumble of your voice,
I want to sun myself in your silence.
There aren't words for that
and so I don't say anything at all.

I am a poet. Some days.
Some days I am an old woman.
And some others I am a little girl.
But I always long to sit at your philosopher's knee
and listen to your thoughts.

My poet heart trembles as I bare myself to you.
I never asked you to write me poetry.
Your smile says everything.

There is a time
When silence isn't quiet
It's getting harder to breathe
My heart is in a constant riot

Life's on a merry-go-round
Wherever I'm going
It's spinning in circles
I'm finding my way around

The fear of not being good enough