Little Ode

Tufted like whips
vines taper down
in wobbly bliss.

Grapeskins
pulled so thin
one can see in and in.

Wine runs out
the spiggots and spouts
of this duchy.

The inn has no more rooms-
three, maybe four
sleep on the floor.

There has been a warning:
in a lamp of fog
a bell tolling.

All the grain is in-
the wind turns cold.
what shall I do?

Tu Fu,
Li Po,
where shall
I go?

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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