Ruth Daigon, winner of the Ann Stanford Poetry Award, in 1997 also the "The 
Eve of St. Agnes Poetry Award in 1994 and runner up in 1995 Prior to her  career in poetry she was a professional singer: a Columbia Recording Artist,  a guest artist on CBS's Camera Three, a soloist with the New York Pro Musica. 
In the late seventies, she made the transition to full time poet, editor,  performance artist. She was founder/editorof the poetry publication Poets  On: for the 20 years of its lifetime. Daigon is a regular on the Internet  with 3 chapbooks on Web Del Sol, Pares Cum Paribus (Chile) and The Alsop  Review plus numerous publications in hard copy magazines and anthologies.  Her most recent book Between One Future And The Next, Papier- Mache Press,  was published in 1995. Her latest book "The Moon Inside" will be 
Gravity/Newton's Baby is appearing momentarily.

".....Ruth Daigon's work is a long drink of cold crystalline spring  water....clear without being shalllow;direct without simplification... Her  poems are like small very sharp knives that peel back clutter, enabling the  reader to see beneath the daily surface of the ordinary.." --Marge Piercy

It Is Enough

It is enough to lean against
the fabric of your flesh.
It is enough to lie
in the domestic morning.

It is enough to watch light
expand through windows
rising and falling
between our bodies on this bed,
this room this continent.

We grow wise watching leaky faucets,
faded wallpaper, mismatched socks.
The coffee boiling on the stone
prepares us for the network news,
shopping malls, miracle cures
and tomorrow always sitting on our bed.

But in this rush of years,
we have not lost the pure imagined past,
the here-it-is, the pitch, the pinnacle
of time shining from within a million
summers or the music so intense it disappears.

We invent a lifetime out of small things,
free the air between our fingers,
diagram the star, dream them into
daylight and admit the future
which is here, always here
like clock that runs forever.

Midnight

rain walks across the roof
safe within the house's heart
we hear a breathing at the keyhole
and leave the door open
where anything may enter

in a night all sweat and shoulders
liquid syllables fill the air
i taste the husk of your voice
hold the bulk of your body
as a glove holds the shape of a hand

the dark expands
we're tightrope walkers
balancing on silence and in this place
no doors no windows
and the world does not arrive

as the rain rains
flowers wither
small animals die
spring ripens into summer
in a pause that lasts forever

unlight melts on my hands
and wild geese lather the sky
i hear the stroke of grass on grass
as morning makes an entrance
with fur and feathers in its hair

FIRST TIME

The sun makes a crystal continent
of our pond. A hint of uninhabited
space stains the surface. Trees
resolve the pattern of our days
branching out beyond our view.

The weather vane, scarred by winter,
grinds slowly on its swivel.
No one remembers the wind and
one arrangement leads to another
around the hot circumference of days.

But the spacious season, kindling
and simmering, cools. Frost sets in
leaving a garden of bare spines, brittle
stalks and heapings of salt hay.

I watch the grass grow blades of ice
and my own reflection in the window
like a dim star that sees beyond
its own light for the first time.

Poetry Magazine