Tuesday, February 01, 2005

White Flag

There is a light running threw the plum trees far up the street, breaking against winter frost mornings, gold on bark and slumber. Nearer wash the road ways ablaze with hope and free. Lined with low end housing that glare through iron grates. And fences that I peer in walking, through slats at unmowen wildwood yards that rust in mystery, and what little I see.


No comments: