Big, dark grey, craneGrey cloudsTrees shroud-cloaked.Misted morning.North wind wings the crane to a bridge buffer.fender.Stilt-stands on wood.Ruffles feathers hunched close to fragile bones.Tucks neck.North wind will not cease today.Trucks rattle bridge stanchionsWorkers moving,Coated from coldFeeding their families.I watch the lone craneNot movingEnduring.I can give a coat to a worker,But nothing.forThe grey crane.
I think you might be a poet already? It was very good.great imagery but it moved me as well.I could see this day and feel it as wellNot to sound rude.Maybe a title change though.elude to something else.Kinda how some of Sylvia Plath's stuff would be titled with somethingg very different from the poem.
I think you might be a poet already? It was very good.great imagery but it moved me as well.I could see this day and feel it as wellNot to sound rude.Maybe a title change though.elude to something else.Kinda how some of Sylvia Plath's stuff would be titled with somethingg very different from the poem.
