Poet Fever

at night
after the poets fall asleep
the impressionists sneak out
with their brushes
with their color
and stipple green leaves
to the bare-limbed trees
polka dot each house
with crimson tulip
with buttery narcissus
blurring the hardline
winter left behind

at dawn
the poets wake
rub the sleep from their eyes
to find, they are obsessed
by a calliope of color
to take up the compulsion
of teasing the essence from
this earthly birth
shaping words

infected by
the bursting buds
sickened by
the lilac’s ripening scent
delusional from butterflies
and bird song

with no cure to tap the saccharine sap
the poet must take the pen and lance the blister
with its nib
spilling the feverish contents
over paper
over and over
until the illness is spent
dry and parched
under summer’s
lamenting sun

4 thoughts on “Poet Fever

  1. Good stuff you are writing, Suzanne. I see yr poems (over the past few yrs) becoming deeper and longer (sustaining). Since you wont be in the summer writing class, this blog may give you structure. I’m a proud follower.

    Like

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