Poetry

Was it kosher to wake
up a sleeping poem, when
someone has burned the book?
A rite of passage
between the poppies?
 
The soaked swans
were not ready to accept
the challenge of the defining moment.
 
A smart moon walks
behind me, snooping around the pines,
to drink the brazen lips.
 
Why small girl walks on the snow
to get the blessing
of the bells?