Archive
09/25/09 - (1)
Silver and Gold
The silver mist's in an awful hurry, this morning. I wish I knew where it was off to. All I can see, from my cabin by the lake, Is that it's racing, breakneck, across the water, Leaning in a forward tilt, Like a drunken bum, wearing tattered shrouds, Stumbling down an eerily lit alley, toward somewhere.
Suddenly, the ten o'clock sun's flaming halo, Smothered under a wide-hovering cloud cover, Breaks through, its fire splattering the lake, Displacing the vapors, with its insistent heat. They disappear, with no traces of the inebriated bum, Just millions of glistening water spirits — Gold ripples creating their own mist.
09/25/09 - (1)
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