(for Meghan) <br /> <br />This dawn of fog and lingering dreams, you feel <br />the centuries in your waking body. Cracow <br />lies on a river at the foot of a hill. <br />Light and bells awaken senses. Black now <br />in shadows, hawkers fill the market square. <br />Pigeons greet your nose and eyes, and flowers. <br />You give a gnarly woman coins, and stare <br />up at the sky, and see the fairy towers, <br />the malachite-green roofs, above which rooks <br />fly north from Brno, Prague, or Budapest. <br />A fiddler plays his violin, and looks <br />up toward you, knowing you’re too soft and green <br />to pass him by. Your senses cannot rest. <br />The day begins, old, musty and serene.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cracow/
