Sunday, April 13, 2008
Rowe Sanctuary - 1000 Cranes
Except for tulips
red is not the color of spring.
Not red of cardinal, radiant
against new snow,
not this lean fox
trotting through the storm,
unaware of cold or the fact
that it's the twelfth day of April.
Maybe a poem will come to me
today and I'll paint words on it,
shape the page into a boat
like those old Chinese poets did,
launch it onto a last floe of ice
or fold the poem into a red-crowned crane,
whirl it up into the wind.