“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.”
— Robert Graves, in response to a
questionnaire in Horizon, 1946. 
Flower Girl
By Shell Zann...
Hold her gently
Sands falling like time through your fingers
She will fill the crevices
in your soul-
a warm desert air.
And when you're in need and thirsty
There are cool pools of delight behind her eyes
Do drink until you are wet with wonderment
Poetry is breaking the cloudy sky
I hear the thunder of your mighty pens
Scratching the grey to blue
The smell of ink and fire riding the air
I'm feeling every bit electric in your gatherings
More to come.
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