Cocks crow memories of gardens gone to concrete behind canted teak houses. Down alley at the ice shop the saw buzzes - a thousand cicadas - cold loaves to crystal slices. My ceiling fan spins languidly the last coolness of 4 AM into the thread of morning heat. Aun, mopping the hall, sings softly as her barefooted tread, into my sweet haze of sleep a wistful, chromatic song, which my alien ears insist narrates the halftones of love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING BLIZZARD by JAMES GALVIN REVIEW by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK by AMY LOWELL FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL THE STARLING; SONNET by AMY LOWELL |