Sunday, December 1, 2013

Winter flight


When, restless as any other,
she forsakes that statue
too old and cold
to march,

where will
that poor soul be?

And what, then, of we?



2 comments:

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

.


The Valley

Young men out hunting stand
high on a mountain ledge,
survey the valley below.
How many days, what direction go
to cross it?

Across the valley old men sit
on ledges, looking down,
remembering the valley below.
How many days and for what purpose
did we cross it?

Copyright 2008 – HARDWOOD: 77 Poems, Gary B. Fitzgerald

William Michaelian said...

A familiar echo;
a companion;
a name;

forever flown;
forever back again.


Thanks, Gary.