Sunday, July 10, 2011

Half sonnet for the usual and accustomed ways

sometimes when the snow falls, I think about
all those people, countless as the stars, who
lived here and left for warmer river bottoms
and winter camps every year, year after year,
in all the years before. old timers still follow that path,
know it or not. they've fired up motor homes and headed
Southwest to the desert, and taken short-sleeved shirts for show.
  
they'll be back in spring, though it comes later every year.