Where Poetry Stays

(Poem by Wendy Howe )

One evening you anointed me poet.
                               Arthur Rimbaud

She sits at the back
of the Frenchman’s soul
in a small courtyard.

The stone fountain
trickles ivy
instead of water.

Leaves sag on the vine
pinching dust
while a tree
shadows her gown
like an ostrich plume.

Softly, it shakes
reminding the muse
that words have left

her nimble hands
and silence begs to dream
in ripe color;

wheat fields and poppies
grapes dark and pale
rivers blue
from the ink of a soluble sky.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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Légendes d'Automne

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