The day growing colder under A thin layer of winter sky A little blue With the crows Bragging immensely in the trees The evening spits up the moon Like a wet seed I come home With my fishing rod and two perch Wrapped in newspaper I’m thirsty But I can wait The ivy is still green And dark in the dusk Like some creature’s fur Fringing the branches (...)
Poetry
Gathering Myself
—Eric Rawson
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