A series of older poems inspired by William Butler Yeats
The poet sat picking dandelions
in a halo of the yellow sun; she could
feel the words growing beneath her fingers.
"I think heaven is in the brightness of color,
in the contrast, in the afternoon shadows."
She stands up, palms stained green.
Sometimes, I believe I am a poet too
and can pluck from inside of myself
oceans of songs, resurrect cemetery memories.
But I have not the life of it.
Too much black, too much white,
falling like snow in August.
the day climbs and falls in an arc
of a pendulum, "Call me Titana.
I'll lure away your serving boys." She laughs,
placing a flower crown on my head.
with eyes clouded by rainbows.