<DIV>Poet, teacher, essayist, anthologist, songwriter and singer, <B>Naomi Shihab Nye</B> is one of the country's most acclaimed writers. Her voice is generous; her vision true; her subjects ordinary people, and ordinary situations which, when rendered through her language, become remarkable. In this, her fourth full collection of poetry, we see with new eyes-a grandmother's scarf, an alarm clock, a man carrying his son on his shoulders.<BR><BR><B>Valentine for Ernest Mann</B><BR><BR>You can't order a poem like you order a taco.<BR>Walk up to the counter and say, "I'll take two"<BR>and expect it to handed back to you<BR>on a shiny plate.<BR><BR>Still, I like you spirit.<BR>Anyone who says, "Here's my address,<BR>write me a poem," deserves something in reply.<BR>So I'll tell a secret instead:<BR>poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,<BR>they are sleeping. They are the shadows<BR>drifting across our ceilings the moment<BR>before we wake up. What we have to do<BR>is live in a way that lets us find them.<BR><BR>Once I knew a man who gave his wife<BR>two skunks for a valentine.<BR>He couldn't understand why she was crying.<BR>"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."<BR>And he was serious. He was a serious man<BR>who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly<BR>just because the world said so. He really<BR><I>liked</I> those skunks. So, he re-invented them<BR>as valentines and they became beautiful.<BR>At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding<BR>in the eyes of skunks for centuries<BR>crawled out and curled up at his feet.<BR><BR>Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us<BR>we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock<BR>in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.<BR>And let me know.</DIV>