Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

The Golden Boy

upon hard pack gravel
spoke beauty
in time-scape

the fruit boxes
all in toss and stain worn
coloured the grey
of no match.

the loveliness
of the Mexican bride,
of her smile,
in the window of the rusted truck,
asking directions
from the Pennsylvania Dutch
went far beyond
digital ability
and painted the desert
of Kentucky gloom.

a thousand images
in a single frame
and yet-
it was the boy, always the boy,
the boy
with the strawberry-blonde
and the smile
of a thousand golden joys
turned back, looking
over the buckboard
that froze time
and rendered hearts
in the glory
of harvest nuance.
for his mind,
his spirit,
his beauty,
could see beyond our vision,
into a tomorrow
we may never know.