And across that pale land
Are those dark ribbons not streets?
Wonder has never yoked them;
The relay of seasons continually haunts,
But where the spectacle of thought
To garner from the wind
One clue to a winter's approach?
Perhaps they have waked too soon.
This is a paradise of mist
With birds like blue
Pilgrims shuddering past,
Without song or specie,
Nameless as those who, for their
Toil, barely observe them.
But one will be driven
To find mountains in sand,
To recognize breath
In the chill dawn air,
And sharing the moon and sun in one eye,
Will divine the ominous plan.
SHAKING THE PRESIDENT'S HAND
Who'd
be
likely to forget
His brief squeeze by those brisk fingers,
The First Citizen's! The touch of kings
Was blessed, a gift to remedy
The King's Evil. Here
Where every man's a king,
What did I touch a President to cure?
Edward Brash
Daniel Hoffman
