In the Mist on a Moonless Night

Caught in the rain between April and June,
deluged by the seventeen year symphony,
the night belongs to cicadas
and to me.

This is not Paris, the muddy Ohio
has no aspirations of being the Seine.
The tallest smoke stack
on this left bank

will never be mistaken for the Eiffel Tower
but the same moon that shines there
will shine here
as soon as  the weather breaks.

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6 thoughts on “In the Mist on a Moonless Night

  1. F. G. M.

    “the night belongs to cicadas
    and to me”

    I love these lines –

    and your beauiful poem inspire me these words…

    La même eau coule
    dans l’Ohio boueux
    et dans la Seine capricieuse
    et le même sang coule
    en vous
    en nous
    en Tout

    1. Dear Frédéric,

      Oh my, what a way to start my day!

      French is such a beautiful language and you add to it the soul of a master poet and again I am overwhelmed at the beauty and wisdom of your work.

      “That capricious Seine, that muddy Ohio…” They are indeed the same flowing water, and poets and dreamers, farmers and engineers, all of us the world over ‘share the same blood’. Il est vrai , mon ami , et magnifiquement sorte .

      Merci,
      Sarah

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