Wednesday, September 12, 2012


On this perfect September day
these California hills rise,
joyfully to pacific skies,

but from my high ground
I gaze across this sun-drunk city,
across that strip of shimmering bay
to distant, wild Marin hills
where a thin, white line
lingers among ancient redwoods.

I see it shroud them in white silence.
It obliterates even  
the radiant, waning sun.

This is winter.

His cold fingers will soon reach
into our happy lives,

our bright denial.

No comments:

Post a Comment