How much better it is
to carry wood to the fire
than to moan about your life
from The Clothes Pin, by Jane Kenyon
When winter won’t stop
whispering in its dreariest voice
I prescribe a sturdy regimen
of poets, their words
stacked like firewood against
implacable cold each twig
bound for kindling crackles
light and comfort,
comfort and joy
The act itself warms and eases
you, gathering the poets
like pouring pills into your cup
whitman kenyon nye
collins cummings bly
rotella neruda
ferlinghetti
and oh, oliver and
oh willard with the moon
in her bicycle basket
Puff Of Smoke Poems 