Singing the way rain sings
in a deluge of dawn fog,
driving through like cutting knife--
a hot blade in butter--
this engine putters
and pushes on,
sweet, so sweet the tune,
lost in a mist
his voice echoes
like billowing clouds,
she rests on her pillows
in wait,
for he'll be home soon.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
Singing the way rain sings
in a deluge of dawn fog,
driving through like cutting knife--
a hot blade in butter--
this engine putters
and pushes on,
sweet, so sweet the tune,
lost in a mist
his voice echoes
like billowing clouds,
she rests on her pillows
in wait,
for he'll be home soon.
Request permission to use this poem