by Barbara Siegel Carlson
Crow on a wire above the snowy street, where do you sleep? I canít see any green. Why that guttural cry as you sweep down to drink from a puddle. You donít wonder who lives or lived here in one of these pastel buildings that face each other in the shadow of the cathedral, who climbs that staircase, who warmed themselves on their books, who sits at the window with nothing in her pockets and no place to call home.
Copyright © 2018 by Barbara Siegel Carlson.