#AmericanWriters
After Adam Zagajewski I am child to no one, mother to a… wife for the long haul. On fall days I am happy with my dying brethren, the leaves…
I sing a song of the croissant and of the wily French who trick themselves daily back to the world
The gathering family throws shadows around us, it is the late afternoon Of the family. There is still enough light
My husband gives me an A for last night’s supper, an incomplete for my ironing, a B plus in bed. My son says I am average,
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
Finding a new poet is like finding a new wildflower out in the woods. You don’t see its name in the flower books, and nobody you tell believes
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal
Pierre Bonnard would enter the museum with a tube of paint in his pocket and a sable brush. Then violating the sanctity of one of his own frames
Because the shad are swimming in our waters now, breaching the skin of the river with their
Perhaps the purpose of leaves is t… the verticality of trees which we… as if for the first time: row afte… yearning upwards. And since we wil… ourselves for so long, let us now…
I am only leaving you for a handful of days but it feels as thought i will be gone forever the way the door closes
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are bro… My mother and father still hovered
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
When they taught me that what matt… was not the strict iambic line goo… over the page but the variations in that line and the tension produ… on the ear by the surprise of diff…