The Crane was originally published in Neologism Poetry Journal
In the melting light a crane
I have seen. Just a limber, milken wraith
Proclaims all chiding sense,
For upon this weary lane
No sacred feather does fall.
But still across the languid pond,
From eyes set in snowy cream
Glides sweet and mute a call.
How has vesper’s jewel come
To stand amid my lot of blighted dirt?
Flee it will, it will, it will,
This silver thing of silver custom.
Yet even as a richer murk the night attains
The silent, legged dream remains.
