Sunday, January 12, 2014

A Poem by John Calavitta

Winter's Tale  
Pine trees change their stance 
bringing what we ask
carrying dead boulders
North into the future
looking at the sky through a knitted hat 
the shirts we sleep in 
like a fraying stocking
our hunting guns tucked in bed
no one pays attention 
to the oracle of a barking dog
or a wet dog lying on the floor
waiting for the word dismiss
now an entity, like a random moon 
that trees askew 

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