Poetry
Mount Tamalpais
Watches, clocks, alarms
Up in the morning and
off to work _ so that
you may rise again.
In the distant sun I see a form
In the distant city
I see flickering lights
The carpenter, Plato says, is but two
removes from reality; the poet, several.
In the distance, brusque fields
flow towards the sea.
A few granite rocks,
the billowing branches of pine
roar into my head, and of two
friends, the willowly sound of
silver flute plays aganst
the metal guitar strings
as we listen to ourselves
and forget who we are.
Nathan B. Spooner ©
Used with the permission of the author.
Poetry
