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Marjorie Mir - Bronxville, NY (USA):

April 01, 2001:
I am trawling the 800's,11-99, searching for the perfect poem,
one tart and sweet as apples(634),
honest as bread (641.8) and salt(553)
where heart (616.12) and mind (128.2)
move together in a new and timeless dance.

April 04, 2001:
This is a book of Chinese poetry,
found in a flea market
in which a poet says,
"How delicious is the taste of a good poem!"

April 09, 2001:
Here is a room of soft, worn chairs, late autumn light
and here are the books I should not have abandoned
or given away.
You go on. I want to sit a little while
and re-read one or two.

April 13, 2001:
Once I followed a band of Gypsies off the page where the
    story ended,
out of the book, far from home, to our encampment,
distant cousin of vacant lots I knew.
My place there was a tree, wide as thought could make it,
a mothering shadow, letting me be, belonging and apart.

April 23, 2001:
A warm April Sunday, true spring at last:
this book, new, still unread, is pleased to be out,
as I am in its company.
Far back, near its closing pages, something stirs,
A memory, almost irretrievable, of kinship with the trees.
On a bench near the river, the book reclines,
opens idly and by chance
to disclose the poet's voice.

April 28, 2001:
Knowing it is soon to be vanquished,
that Time and his hordes are approaching,
I am saving what fragments I can
from the Library at Goldbarthia,
home of poets, site of rare beauty and wit.

April 30, 2001:
From his retreat in this book,
The Jade Mountain,
Han Hung sends you a message:
"I have found your poems so beautiful
I forget the homing birds."