Tuesday, October 7, 2014

City By Joseph Bruchac

 


There are seeds within the tide
Unmarked by season
rainbows of oil
The glitter of metal
and in soft crepe decay
fish are sinking.
.
Wind touches the roof
of the bay,
Snow bursts
into icy leaves
The mouth of the river
turns into smoke
and becomes the city. 
 
 
google.com
 

1 comment: