Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
A Spaniard paints devils on his walls.
Outside, over the plains and hills, gray skies loom.
On days like these they say the devil
Walks over the fields and hills, through the grass,
Hiding his feet in the dead yellow blades.
Like an old leafless tree that stands above
The tops of the stalks who dance with the wind.
He lurks, never walking, never moving
But never in the same place as before.
Frankie looks out his window, watching,
Painting as the black cuts through the gold.
And on the sands of a wide river
A man in black stands on the east bank.
Water up to his knees, he throws a ring,
Gold like dead grass, gold like afternoon sun.
The ring sinks into the river,
Onto the murky black bed of silt
Where it will lay and sing a silent song
Asking for a hero to make the sun shine
Through the gray and make the grass green again.
So Siegfried, come get your golden ring
Before the giants send you home to an empty bed.
Will Swanson, Baltimore, Maryland
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