« Beneath My Hands | Main | My elbows are grass-stained... »
Abril 4, 2004
Early
From behind the hill
flowing through somber
palm, eucalyptus, web
of oakboughs, rises
ligh so pale a gold
it bathes in silver
the cool and still
air a single bird
stiirs with tentative song.
Denise Levertov
Posted by sarita at Abril 4, 2004 5:02 PM