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At Home

This morning, early, I wakened to a knocking at the pane—an apple bough, fruit-laden, stirred by wind—and rose to the morning’s clear gift. Outdoors in sunlight, bending to the kind of labor that gives back more than it costs, I mowed the grass and planted . . . . Continue Reading »

The Fencer

The appearance of perfection: Chiaroscuro come to an August day Wafted by van Rijn. Against the waving sky is the great tree Icon for what, I do not wish to know. Icon for what I do not wish to know. What I cannot defeat I will to learn to meet. Measure with level gaze . . . . Continue Reading »

Not a Poem

Old people can’t write poetry. Only those who think and live and feel and praise and swear and fight and love and give birth to babies can give birth to poems.  Not old people. No dear old lady living in retirement with a shawl around her shoulders, living among . . . . Continue Reading »

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