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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Beneath the Spring Rain
Shape-shifting sky crawls on all fours,
with light shimmering through its ash-colored veins,
and millions of eyelids blink
at the steel needles of spring,
knitting the green much the same
as the years pass.
A brazen bandaid for worm-eaten wounds,
ivy wraps around hopeless stumps.
Fertile for larkspur, lilacs, or roses,
dark soil revealed by spade and hoe,
drinks the tonic wrought from clouds,
with celebratory thirst.
Twisting in her hands her keys to rebirth,
confident in her way through crusted earth,
her stronghold on life measured in buckets,
nature saunters in an ankle-length dress
in order to reimburse
for winter.
Through the banging of shutters,
animated in a storm's symphony,
rain, in tempo with the wind instruments,
splashes in question marks on the slippery street,
while she laments frizzled hair,
instead of frizzled dreams.
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© Copyright 2002 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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