Sunday, March 22, 2009

Jerry Garcia


On rocky hillside,
I trudge toward a vantage,
trip over other travelers,
cans, wrappers and butts,
such unconvincing guides.

Tangled vines make faces
in setting sun shadows.
Disapproving branches bow
and shutter remaining light.

“The North Star will lead a man home,”
so I am told by mariner friends.
But here where the roads cross
under trees edged by clouded glow,
my neck strains to find that fabled light.

No comments:

Post a Comment