by Robert Crisp


When the snow is hard as brick
and the sun neglects its normal path,
she hides under covers and unthinks
the world, turning ice to water,

reminding the sky what it forgot:

the deep meaning of blue,
not the amnesiac gray
that scrolls like a player piano
sheet across the vaults of heaven.



By day, Robert Crisp teaches writing and literature at Armstrong State University in Savannah, GA. By night (and really, during the day, if he's honest), he writes poems.