I Heard Poems Shaking

I heard poems shaking
in the leaves today.
I saw them in the sunshine that sparkled
like multitudinous rings
on the pale fingers of the day.
Papillon breezes
wove them like a garland crown
and spun them like a feather shawl
be-flowered, be-beed, be-ribboned
and just floating there for me.
I know that come nightfall they will
burrow into tree knolls
feather their nests with plump words
and hang their lightning bug lamps
in the windows of my gypsy wagon eyes.
And I will not put it past them to come
dressed as racoons and rattle
even the trash bins of my dreams. — Annette Marie Smith

Sometimes light pours…

Sometimes light pours
over the eyes like a gauze blindfold.
The light lays a veil over everthing,
a headscarf haze,
and obscures every bit as much as it reveals
a milky marvel of a waterfall
pouring into cauldron pools with steam
rising.
Brightness wears china cup hooves
and gallops over the plain of sight
becomes many, a mighty herd
stampedes
and leaves
everthing and nothing
in its flight. — A Day So Bright, Annette Marie Smith