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What can I do for you,
Beautiful snag?
The still virginal tatters of
A promised gown
Stripped on a snare
At the river’s high-water mark.
The gem of the world could not
Hold you nor buy your wealth.
Even drowned,
You mix with the richest silts,
As the ghostly bellies of glaciers
Bump against you.
Your eyes are speckled with 10,000 lakes….
Each one no less deep than a soul….
And, like the rest of the
Country, you sell cars,
Because in this economy,
It’s your beauty’s worth.
Bret R. Crabrooke
| Submitted Date |
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Thursday, August 16, 2007 |
| Submitted Date |
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Tuesday, March 29, 2011 |
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Poets
