#AmericanWriters
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on