poetry sits on my windowsill

disguised as a bird
and singing
just for me.
my pen is a recorder
recording her notes
without permission
but also knowing
that we both agree —
somebody has to do it! — Annette Marie Smith


The night closes its eyes and dreams

of a place where silver fish swim in an inky black pool
sunk in the cool marble
of an in-between time
hung with mists
that sway like sheer drapes drifting, drifting,
with the music of invisible birds
twining, twining, harmonizing
with the howling of one lone wolf
and the night is barefoot, sleepwalking
into another day. — Annette Marie Smith