by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The changing light
at San Francisco
is none of your East Coast light
none of your
pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
is a sea light
an island light
And the light of fog
blanketing the hills
drifting in at night
through the Golden Gate
to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
after the fog burns off
and the sun paints white houses
with the sea light of Greece
with sharp clean shadows
making the town look like
it had just been painted
But the wind comes up at four o'clock
sweeping the hills
And then the veil of light of early evening
And then another scrim
when the new night fog
floats in
And in that vale of light
the city drifts
anchorless upon the ocean
It's been a crazy past couple of weeks and this blog has been a little on the back burner. I always hate it when that happens. Anyway, it's National Poetry Month again, and that means it's the time of year when I get daily reminders that my favorite source of inspiration is always around if I choose to seek it out.
Picture I Took:
Best breakfast.
Listening to Warpaint.
No comments:
Post a Comment