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A
Landscape
There were
raindrops
On my office window
Some beaded and
Some streaked like
An artist's brushstrokes
Framed in the
window
A landscape of grays
Smudged and blurred
With crows flying
under
Low storm clouds
The sun shines
darkness
And objects soak up light
Under clouds that never clear
And drizzle that never stops
In skies where only crows fly
Winter
Landscape
The black and
white
Winter landscape
Is the setting for the
Crow's swagger and
Strut in a snowy road.
They fly into
trees
Finding their perches
In highest branches.
As I approach
they call
To one another.
I watch them
in trees
Leafless, stark and unreal
Like x-ray images read in
The
weak background light
Of a December sky.
Lone Crow
In bright
sunlight on a day in early Spring
A lone crow perched on a high parapet
wall
Near my office window
Looking away
from my monitor I watched it
For a moment a feathered bookmark to feelings
I cannot escape
I've watched
gangs of crows under winter skies
Flying from roof to roof on outstretched
wings
Dark mnemonics of despair
And If I could
paint like Van Gogh I would
Pepper storm clouds above the parking lot
With waves of black wings
And if I could
write like Poe I would mark
The visit of a lone specter quoting in whispers
Names I cannot speak
Red
Wheelbarrow
I didn't
notice the sunrise orange
Boiling over the horizon from my
Office
window
Or a crow
flying black against the
Winter sky the tips of its wings
Foiling
upward
I live in a
morning without poetry
Where the modular furniture is
January gray
And metaphors
lose their way in
Aisles narrow maze and images
Left forgotten
Like cold
coffee in office pots
And similes yellow wilt like
Tropical plants
In the
reception lobby waiting at
The elevators I have forgotten a
Red
wheelbarrow
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