Tuesday, May 21, 2013


The Olympic Music Festival found its way into a poem.  Mike and I love sitting on the lawn outside the barn and listening to beautiful music as we doze.


a blue sky day mottled by clouds
so white their edges cut the eye

from the southeast a gyrating mist
under a layer of billowed iron

that rushes
a dispersed atmosphere

an uneven blending of white cotton
over gray wool then black dots

 a seagull, to wrens, a crow

they crease the pattern
a seam of wings

beating against the flow of Dvorak

Avis Adams