Prospero - Poem by Leslie Philibert
Houses of green water have risen before him,
of sickening height, dirty with anger, full of foam.
But he will not yet denounce his magic
but listen to what the thunder speaks
and write with iced and frozen fingers about
the flotsam of drowned wisdom.
His pain is older than yews and as
black as ancient olives, but he has
the last story to tell.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You