Monday, March 5, 2018

MY EYES ARE A CAMERA, a poem



Icy tunneled roadways
give shelter from wintry winds
where tousled, snow-fingered limbs
harbor iced patterns
on fragile leaves
yet to fall off armies of trees.
A tree-lined lake        
mirrors blue and gold
(ice and sun).
The brightest star shines
higher than its counterpart,
(a quarter moon). At night,
moonlight showers
are white-gold
like a husky’s fur.
In the woodland,
early spring moves slap-dash
through a running brook.
At dusk, birds share
bounteous feeders.
New snowflakes fall
on the frozen ground.
At the roadside,
snow-capped mailboxes
and snow-shelves
bank along the passageways.
 
by
Patricia Crandall
 

Chances are You Will Want to Come to New York City

In 1958 Her streets were paved in yellow brick leading to Fifth Avenue and 42 nd  Street. You might have seen a zealous couple dance-walkin...