This red cliff above
Neshaminy, and a wind
left here by the fat
of winter --
only one hawk, talons
curled into the juice
of her breast, made light
in reflection by
the curved note
a solitary canoe cuts
like grief below. But how
this tawny mud, this olive snake
and rise of late March
shakes off another hour
by the bleat of geese?
Another reluctant passion
alone. And now far upstream
the red boat and tick
of spring follows winter
and this man down.
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About The Author
Grant Clauser is a medical magazine editor near Philadelphia and freelance technology writer. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Hatfield, PA. Poems have appeared in various places including The Literary Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Wisconsin Review, The Maryland Poetry Review, Painted Bride Quarterly and others plus a TV show about bass fishing.
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