To a  Poet’s Poet
                                                     
Just a few words strung together.
Just a few pictures wrapped as words.
Tied with a little string instead of a bow.
Just a few hearts, just a few hands,
reaching for the warmth of skin
remembers it’s flesh.  Just a few hints
of essence of rose.  Coffee in the morning,
bread warm from the stove.  Nape
of a neck perfumed with soap.  Just a bit
of paper, not a few piles of eraser bits.  
Just a bit of heartbreak, just a little loss.
Soupcon of broth from an outsized ladle
to feed a multitude on very few fish.
In between a thrill goes  too deep
to be prose.  Just the thing about being
human.  Just the rhythms humans hum.
All this and more you bring us, Poet.
Bring out on a platter you keep warm,
Napkin with a smile.  Just a few tears.  
Okay, a lot.   Poetry spelled L I f e
not at all like falling off a log.   Real
thank-you poem not a little hard
to write.    Best to read the poem
penning itself inside.

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green, October, 2005