— Christine Richardson
This is not a large poem
with the wing span of a condor.
Nor the kind one slips under a microscope
like a blue bottle fly to see
its beauty and complexity.
This poem does not march down the page.
It is not a parade of decorated Chinese
soldiers kicking up one high-booted
word after another.
No, this poem is a swan on a wooded lake.
It glides across the placid page
effortlessly it seems.
It leaves a wake.
And you, dear reader, must be a fish.
to see what propels it forward
and note with not a little envy
how its black patent shoes tap dance
through one world
and the whole of its body
rises into the next.