Petals on Winter Water

Do I brag when I say I'm mad?
I do when I call myself "a wild poet."
Sing, clatterbones of steel as my fingers dance
And my dollars slouch towards bandruptcy.
Critics say little, and friends say "Interesting"
But you nod with joy at my tacky pentameters.
I no longer rush out to read to strangers
Or join my fellow crackpots who collect rejection slips
From The New Yorker. Typing alone.
I hear your laughter as my pages hit the floor-
Like a Chinese poet who shook a branch
A thousand years ago and shouted downstream,
"Each petal is a poem!" But never in winter.
I am the shaking, dancing poet for this season.
Another Chinese poet withdrew from the battle,
His nicked and bloody sword left outside:
Within, he composed calm verses.
The wind now howls about my eaves:
General Winter assaults me on all sides
While I sit in my library with old books-
Portable moons glowing with unearthly light-
And my poems on the cold floor,
Resting like petals on winter water.