morning poem, April 8, 2016



Layers of cloud

Brush strokes, grey and white

Roll above the distant spires of the city

These buildings, touching the heavens

Must be the work of giants

Creatures who once walked the Earth

Who imagined great things

And whose ingenuity was marvelous

And now is lost

The men among these buildings now

Walk small, like ants in crevices

The clouds break now and light

Falls across the towers

Near and below, a workman walks to a construction trailer

He is wearing prison orange and has no hat

Beside there a plastic bag flutters

In the brittle branches of a tree

Still caught in winter.


Copyright 2016

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