A poem is just a poet’s way
Of sniffing out the season
She writes the poems because she breathes
There is no other reason
In autumn, poems go floating
To the earth, like leaves to lakes
In winter, poems are crystallized
In icy, mirrored flakes
In springtime, poems go fluttering
Like tiny birds from nests
In summer, poems burst forth
Like drops of sweat on women’s breasts
The poet sees and smells it all
And breathes it out in words
And poems are written just like chirps
Are uttered from the birds.
