Yesterday our days were melted in the sun, Bled of their life stuff and essences into Gutters and sewers; and being nothing More than a sun-streaked afternoon, We should call it the last sighting Of the shadow of a shadow of a cloud, Sweeping past the hillside and the snow, Trickling from the weathered rock and cracking, Forming torrent-streams on mountain slopes, And tearing with tiny fingers At the tree roots in the land Merging valleys...
Sketch: Vol. 37
, Article 3.
Available at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/sketch/vol37/iss3/3