cafe mama

a domestic realist blog

not a poem about the first day of spring . 20 march . 2013

Before there were cameras; if you were walking and looked up, on the first day of spring, to see in the sky, clouds piling their pigment in swaths of steel grey and white-grey and the grey of sand on the beaches in the evening, behind the weaving cragging moss-covered branches of a lordlike oak, and a single crow lofted into the air, flapping his wings like it was a privilege afforded only to the few; I suppose all you would have had to remember it by, would be poetry.

the sky over gladstone street one day

ads, which strive, which fail to yield

read my previous post . bad day . 18 february . 2013