remembering Angry Hawk
his book of poems
soft in my hands
carefully folded and sewn

in his newfound hermitage

haunted by coyote carcass
rotting on lake ice
he stirs coals
in rusty woodstove

his old man’s pipe
and gives to the earth
like smoke rings
which most cannot
see through
but rather see only
the sky where
they rise and rise
hawks soaring

Reach out and touch someone....

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s