Poetry

For a lake feel
to find the four-leaf clover
grazing your absence.

But the road does not run.
And I cannot reach
the wicked rapture.

Where the gray sky
meets the water's shadow
every wave weeps for the moon.

Like a dragonfly skimming
the import, floats on the
dampened page of life.

You will not be able to sleep
in this full moon.
The pilgrim hawk was flying
very low.