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What I Need It For 
I meant it for my desk, to hold my pencils and pens,
but I need flowers instead, yellow-centered
summer daisies to bluster into my poems.
Each morning when I trudge into my study,
rain or shine, rain or (mostly) more rain,
one look at these white pinwheels
each with its own little sun, and I can begin
to believe my own weather is different.
But what if you stepped into that room
just now, awkward as our first day, hesitant
and wordless? The flowers could have been
roses, of course. Better they aren't. Better
they are common flowers, the kind
you plant only once,
and year after year they return.
What It Is
It is
whatever it is
that stirs the house
of your heart,
that shares
your hunger,
your thirst,
your urge all day
to hear more
than your own voice
voicing its foolishness.
It is
whatever it is
in your hands
that slithers away,
whatever can only be
glimpsed, sudden
or sharp, but tuneless,
bass notes, not
melody.
You were born
knowing
you'd have to learn
whatever it would take
and even to learn
what to make of it.
It is not
the words
in your throat
not even
your honest intention.
When you open
your mouth
it is
whatever it is
that no longer speaks
that longs to speak,
whatever it is
that trembles.
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Andrea
Hollander Budy’s first collection of poems, 