The Season Poem by Brian Taylor
The Season
The season slides
to wind and showers
and sharp hot sun
(for rare half-hours)
and all the world
lays waste its powers
pursuing what it cannot own.
Then mists and fogs and hazy sunrise
ships’ dull horns and lazy gull cries.
Now blazing heat
(bone dry pails)
sandy feet
single sails.
And thoughts slip in and out of being
just on the edge of almost-seeing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 2:07:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
