Thursday, April 7, 2016


(a poem for winter, maybe a bit late)

From the North the cold storms roll in
like bad news over troubled grey waters
And paces quicken with quickly quaking leaves
that turn and twist and break
free of brittle branches with winds
from other places,
not sun-drenched olive hills but
eternal night soaked barren tundra expanses
and their companion seas of violet fury
never calmly caressed to glassy sleep
by drifting desert breezes
So this pleasant postcard backyard view
Becomes our inevitable nemesis
Pounding at the gates in king tides
The land may know no seasons but
the sea, it feels them all

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