Red Rush Too White Poem by James McLain

Red rushes white,
through narrow streams
and the sky struggles, too see.

While the bottom of the clouds,
at night remain unseen,
dark as death, breath without dreams.

Erect and surrounded by haze,
the monument begins each day
with a dimmer view and blood pools
as ink too song, not written on paper.


Unversed the great oak without the heart to pull
from roots whites tops it's red streams,
cannot pump to the top nor reach out to the sky
and dizzy with effort, the leaves turn no more...
and remembers not the soft clouds bottom nor top,
and the soft cool ground beyond releases it's grasp
last running sigh and vainly white dies to touch red.







my.b.p.