A POEM.
Storm in the sierras. Those harbingers of primavera, almond blossoms fall like snow, each one writ by the hand of God. Stark and grey the sierras stand these, the bony ribs of earth; rearing massive, grey and sere. Among the lofty, lonely peaks newborn goats die in the rain. Heaven weeps her copious... Sign in to see full entry.