Two Poems by Pauletta Hansel

Why I Write

Always the hope

it is more artichoke than onion,

and I am heading toward

a plump, sweet mystery

the surface never can reveal.

Or like tapping mother's crystal goblets,

each resonating note heard only

in relation to the other--

yes this; not that; these together

make the tune.

Always Looking at the Wrong Thing

Not the sweet bruised flesh

but the worm's sharp wounding.

Not the fruit

but its weight.

Not the day

but the dark that frames it.

Not the garden

but the gate.