Leavenworth

A September rendezvous With Leavenworth The town that boasts Of a great Bavarian past Which celebrates inebriate On beer of German brew Brown, black, bubbling Post-prandial burping The streets walk as though doped Golden afternoons Overlooked by mounts on the north With puffy hair of clouds The Northern Cascade mounts That smell of ancient South Pacific Of a hundred million years ago Shade and keep her bright From raining vagabond clouds Men and women go in and out Of shops that sell curios Sleep-walkers who yearn To store a holiday in things While others sit With profound visage Sipping wine of age That is ancient vintage Till their eyelids fail to rise Children celebrate their glee Moving around the town In a decorated horse carriage The animal neighs in disregard Dumps bucketful of dung Into a bag tied to its hind Two trees overlook in the breeze Overburdened with green fruits No one knows their name One says weeping willows The other refutes Who has time To remember their next of kin In a world lost to its moorings Slow flowed Wenatchee The anklet of Leavenworth. Drunken, no one had time To know her heart-beats That sunny afternoon When clouds failed to rain And men drowned in wine