A
Landscape
There were
raindrops On my office window Some beaded and Some streaked like
An artist's brushstrokes
Framed in the
window A landscape of grays Smudged and blurred With crows flying
under Low storm clouds
The sun shines
darkness And objects soak up light Under clouds that never clear
And drizzle that never stops In skies where only crows fly
Winter
Landscape
The black and
white Winter landscape Is the setting for the Crow's swagger and
Strut in a snowy road.
They fly into
trees Finding their perches In highest branches. As I approach
they call To one another.
I watch them
in trees Leafless, stark and unreal Like x-ray images read in The
weak background light Of a December sky.
Lone Crow
In bright
sunlight on a day in early Spring A lone crow perched on a high parapet
wall Near my office window
Looking away
from my monitor I watched it For a moment a feathered bookmark to feelings
I cannot escape
I've watched
gangs of crows under winter skies Flying from roof to roof on outstretched
wings Dark mnemonics of despair
And If I could
paint like Van Gogh I would Pepper storm clouds above the parking lot
With waves of black wings
And if I could
write like Poe I would mark The visit of a lone specter quoting in whispers
Names I cannot speak
Red
Wheelbarrow
I didn't
notice the sunrise orange Boiling over the horizon from my Office
window
Or a crow
flying black against the Winter sky the tips of its wings Foiling
upward
I live in a
morning without poetry Where the modular furniture is January gray
And metaphors
lose their way in Aisles narrow maze and images Left forgotten
Like cold
coffee in office pots And similes yellow wilt like Tropical plants
In the
reception lobby waiting at The elevators I have forgotten a Red
wheelbarrow
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