Death of an ImmigrantParakeets have no use for the ferryman.I've seen them die feet furled and sails flapping,Though they cannot travel, held in my hand;If I let them, they would crash among the furniture and still Their wings would frantically beat. I guess it is a stroke.They are unsoothed by the touch of my fingersTheir eyes do not recognize me, they have seen I cannot say. Some beaconThat to us must lose all meaning during the daily flood of Lethe A light from Ellis Island.Towards it they fling themselves, wild once again,Unaware they are sharing moments thatTo me are precious; for I am cradling a sudden strangerWho doe
Wizard of the WaterwoodThe Indarin say that when the Wizard of the Waterwood wished to select his heir, he summoned his three disciples, that he might set them a task which would judge between them. On his bed in the mere the Wizard lay, wizened and old beyond count of years, with his gray beard-tangles clambering down the bed and floating out every which way upon the shallow water around his bed, like the very roots of the willows which grew all around his house, bowing their heads and their boughs in protective reverence towards his dwelling. Candles there were upon his table and upon his mantle and upon his hearth; for no fire would the Wiz