A quiet pause here,
between two struggling worlds:
the mountain hidden behind
coarse-plastered walls of cloud,
the river obscured by fog, even
the freeway muted and cottoned and quiet.
Only the crows break through.
The trees tangle
their fingers in strands of cloud
in vain: they're too weak
to pull down the sky.
We are all at a standoff, and as we listen
to the sough of tires on asphalt
we wonder: when he comes at last,
whose side will the new year take?
6 comments:
All the sides.
Oh, shush! :-)
Sorry, (hangs head.)
waiting, bleurgh
as the new year makes his choice, I wish she would keep in mind that this year gone past need not be the template for the year to come ... some of us wouldn't mind at all if she would choose up, after all
from your lips to God's ear, nTex!
Post a Comment