sometimes I wonder if she has a pulse
she rushes by me so fast
always offering a greeting in passing
this wind in my valley
runs away to Burmese mountains
when it's too warm to chill her drinks
she plays whistle games with the Golden Gate
plays contact sports with Baton Rouge
pitch and fetch with the peaks of Everest
I only see her when she is gone
what's left in her wake
soft oak leaves, broken dream houses
0 comments:
Post a Comment