Poem: August 15, 2006

Thunder echoing
last night off the mountains…
today sun and a few clouds.

She collects dogs from the street
but she can’t save them all,.. it’s like
the Mexican tunes she hears on the radio
and remembers from years ago.

It’s not like the city,
rushing continuously to go nowhere.
Time grinds itself slowly like corn…
generations wave to each other
as they pass… no where to get to
because they are here.

The sky comes right down to earth
where flowers bloom constantly

Magic is a word made up,
where there was none, to point
to inexplicable wonder.