how the wind blows over the river
quite a curious thing, isn’t it,
the way the water rolls in time
with the wind’s hushed music
that echoes
although there is only sky
and water
for it to bounce off of.
how the wind blows over the river
quite a curious thing, isn’t it,
the way the wind whispers longingly
as it streaks over the currents,
reaching in vain for its lover, the water,
screaming
a deep-throated sound
that haunts the riverbanks
forever
this isn't the first snow - it isn't
the one we spent at the bus stop together, sharing
hand warmers and wishes for the bus to come,
which, eventually, it did
melting the frosty road beneath it
Inspired by the poem 'Fog' by Carl Sandburg.
He comes quietly, night after night,
soft four-toed footprints in the frosted grass.
He rolls over, and over, stretching
i would like to write a psalm made of salt dedicated to whomever Lot’s Wife really was.
for people cannot be made of perfection
and people cannot be made to never hold grudges. what if
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.