Poetry of Issue #8        Page 19

Untitled - (1966)

The clouds were gray
in a white sky.

One would have thought
it was night, but it was day.

I thought it right to leave you,
still I stayed.

I was cinnamon, then,
sharp and salty, exotic and real.

the field flowers, wild,
formed crowds,

then dispersed.
And I could see no pattern.