Poetry

 

 

Joanne Grumet

Ars Poetica

It's great to wake up
on a mountain top
after a steep climb
and still have time
to dream

Down below
I watch myself
pick up dollar bills
scattered on city streets
like dead leaves

but up here
I witness
the birth of clouds
as lacy mists rise
from the creek beds
into morning
into Breath.

In a nearby village
hidden away
beside a white church
on a lane swept back
around the mountain's curve
stands a house of poetry.

I turn a phrase inside out
like a pulled off sweater
and wipe my feet on the mat
as I enter.

 

 

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