by Glen Martin Fitch
Up north at dusk
the winter snow
reflects the sky
for one enchanted hour of blue.
Down south at noon
the desert sand projects
bewitching, rippling pools
too bright to view.
The drifts of white
are grand until you drive.
Then shoveling at dawn
becomes your lot.
That brilliant sun
makes all things seem alive.
Yet everything you touch
is skillet hot.
When young
I dreamed the highway was the sea.
Near waves
I hear old roads I can't forget.
Remain at home
you never might feel free
Move once or more
you'll always feel regret.
We seldom feel content
at any time.
Then search about
for anything sublime.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011