After the Poetry
I breathe in the poetry of last night.
Five women stand before family and friends,
and read what has taken them years
to reveal,
years,
and they look so young,
children at recital,
saplings and seasoned trees.
I sleep, wrapped in their poems,
and this morning I unwrap,
and continue to feed,
on the wisdom of youth,
the observant gods,
living like fairies
on nuts and seeds.
Knowing When to Stop
I watch the grounding stone of criticism,
revision
even as I tweak
a line so perfect
it stands in flow.