from burnéd stump awake the seed
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the end
everything that begins must finish
nor would i wish it to continue
dear those these days have been
have you seen such beauty?
have you ever seen
such beauty that you could not
put it into words?
thanksgiving on the prairie
gold-bleached grasses bend
in the wind while ice frosts
the slender fingers of every
black-barked tree
two for joy
there’s warmth in the breezes
and dew on the grass
whisp’ring spring will soon be here
every ordinary hour
leaves fall one by one
off the tree, covering
violets, milkweed, and
every slumbering thing
a dinner of herbs
though we have no fig in flower
nor heavy grapes upon the vine
in between the lines
emily, i am tired —
emily, what shall i write?
how to be a poet
be not prideful through your given gift of words —
each one who listens must tell what he has heard
mr. standfast
though the stars burn out and the earth give way
the right will outlast any wrong
