June 10th, 1977 at 5:57 pm
(Darkness, Featured Poems, Poetry)
The pines pass us by
trees of hours gone by
as we take our car ride.
The clouds go rushing
down the sky blushing
hideous pink
as we travel by;
and the horizon thumbs up
to capture the sun, cup
over it in a blacking wink.
I think
we have blurred into nightside.
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June 10th, 1977 at 5:56 pm
(Darkness, Poetry)
Wind is simple.
It blows the seagull
like a windmill
across the ocean sky.
What is the use to try
to make the wind a wimple?
Better to make the seagull
even into an eagle
or the kite into a fluttering dragonfly.
The wind has no why.
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