Crooked River is colder than I thought,
and there is a drizzle that wets streets
and shoulders and shoes and moods;
buses trudge on, rattling and thumping,
and as we stop and as we go, I hold on--
sometimes a seat, sometimes a handle,
sometimes anything.
West Bank Hope
Crooked River loses its way,
and there I found West Bank:
night lanterns bleed water red,
and folks put candles afloat--
paper boats carrying hope yonder.
I tried, and tried, but mine didn't last,
that Crooked River wind telling me what?
1 comment:
Thanks for your blog. it's a great example of reflective writing. Amanda
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