A Poem For Pete Seeger:
It Is All Etched In Crayolas, January 28,2015
It is the coldest day, it is always the coldest
when I read Pete Seeger has died.
Cars pass outside, and men who have stayed
out all night at the local bars pass paying life dues
down slippery hills of ice never knowing their real
names or identities. I imagine his fingers fine on his banjo.
Yes, there, he had this face, this clear identity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem