poet

i. I am
Not-Barefoot Poet
Your serendipitous fire-child
(Though certainly more feeble within)
Your moody, reclusive teenage daughter
Withdrawing, always, back into my sister shapeless-shifting shadows
Because
I, too, am only a shadow

ii. Today
I speak barely a word
Lie alone in our family's hotel room-
Fourth-floor attic-nook
Sprawled on my bed with a hardbacked volume:
No trashy beach novels for me
I prefer
Tennyson
or ee cummings
Purple poet bookbag
Dangles from a hook above
This is my little whim-world
Poem-world
Writing has spirited me away from you

One of my favorite things about winter is the Poet’s Snow.
There’s just no other way to go.
There’s no real name for it,
I just made one up.
Everyone writes about it,
How romantic it is,
How they love it so much,
And how it looks almost too soft to touch.
Poet’s snow is the kind that sticks to your hair,
At least until you go inside and it melts.