Friday, August 28, 2020
The poet is not so poor he cannot
take a glass of wine upon the evening,
and so he does. As the light fades the red
of the wine deepens. Wind sings a march song.
The snow is going. Summer beckons from
a distance. The poet thinks the wine is
the color of blood, spilled and spilling and
still to be shed. That's the kind of evening
it is, too cold to go out, too late for
him to make any other plans tonight.