| | This morning I found a poem I wrote on Thanksgiving morning last Fall:
Thanksgiving morning.
Geese honk away over the fields.
Six pumpkins sit in a row on my porch, small to big.
The grass has reappeared during the night,
leaving of last night's snow only icy white crystals
clumped in bits over the green.
The roof still drips the night's damp,
but the sky is a clear, cold, soft pastel blue,
covered by long, wind-blown scuds that drift slowly
North past an almost-risen sun,
which lights them up orange when they go by.
Snow still lies in patches on the rows of the soy field.
A sweet-gum tree stands firmly before the furrows,
guarding them from my view,
while its still-hanging leaves sway
green and purple in the cold breeze. |
| | Posted 6/8/2006 1:50 PM - 14 views - 3 comments
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