The omelette sunrise soaks
fall-toasted fields in golden yolk.
Geese vees move above trees
and chimney smoke.
Let's bring our slippered feet,
our steaming mugs of whetted heat,
out to the wind-chilled wicker.
Let's take a seat.
And feast.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Heirloom
The market on the eastern slope surveys A place in Minnesota that I love: Looks past the barns, past where the tire swing sways, And the far...
-
What was the subconscious impulse that prompted the circuits in my skull to begin pulsating to the nauseatingly cheesy rhythm of I'll b...
-
"Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?" Mo had said..."As if something were le...
-
It's already mid-June, and here I am in Hudsonville (the library--my oldest, dearest haunt), bereft of full time employment, my life a s...
No comments:
Post a Comment