Clouds
pile up
and they push
against the vague,
hazy horizons.
A wind from the northwest
grasps at the recumbent leaves
so that they panic and protest,
leaving them coldly disconsolate.
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I don't feel that I often make insightful comments about your poetry, except to say that I like certain poems a great deal. This is one of them! I love the sounds of the consonants as they "pile up" in the poem.
Posted by: Bob Gehrenbeck | 2016.10.29 at 20:27