Wednesday, March 22, 2017

MIDWEST POEM

Outside
their crumbling houses

and tumble-
down apartmentscalm

obdurate elm trees,
though

dormant,
still push back

hard against
immense and

intransigent skies.
And the March wind

makes music
with the bare branches,

but it never
writes lyrics.

Those, they supply
for themselves

going by, whistling
low, wondering: what chance?

can a man—so supple
by comparison,

so submissive, 
and perennially

stuck in this gap
between

the dead earth 
and the living, 

breathing heavens—
possibly stand?

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?