The villa of Petrarch sits on a hill
Above the rapids tumbling through the rocks.
It's ruins now--the broken stones are clocks
That tick much faster than his poems will.
We fabricate his home to hold it still
While his verse blossoms like deep purple stocks
And his rhy...
My Muse, the gift of God and memory,
Is silent, doesn’t always speak to me
With her crepe myrtle lips or skipping feet
That dance out lines in a butterfly beat –
I chastise her and here she is, divine
And making poems I pretend are mine –
I measure out my words until t...