April is Poetry Month, Words that weave and enchant, Maya Angelou is a favorite poet, Her wisdom like a soothing balm.

If not for the moon

that pulls the ocean tide up,

revealing raw sand,

then when would the sea

be able to thrash waves

when only at stillness?

And the surface water sits,

heavy on its floors

To be a poet is not to write poems.  

No. 

Most anyone can do that. 

Most anyone has done that, 

for school, maybe. 

To be a poet is to see a tree  

In the quiet hush of dawn, The weather begins to change, As winter's icy grip unclenches, And spring has come into range. 

Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it 

In the evening they throw it back to the sun 

whose tendrils collect it 

then go home 

There's this banging 

On the bars of my chest 

like xylophone bones, 

Just waiting to be played 

There is something waiting to 

In the still of night, 

Shadows dance and play.

Soft moonlight fades,

As stars begin to sway. 

Silent whispers of 

Darkness start to fade;

As first light of dawn 

My babysitter,

Brother,

Sister,

And I,

Huddle on the green couch.

Her laptop,

Shiny silver,

Is opened