#AmericanWriters
I remember what my father told me: There is an age when you are most… He was just past fifty then, Was it something about the trees t… There is an age when you are most…
I sing a song of the croissant and of the wily French who trick themselves daily back to the world
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
When our cars touched When you lifted the hood of mine To see the intimate workings under… When we were bound together By a pulse of pure energy,
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
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
I married you for all the wrong re… charmed by your dangerous family h… by the innocent muscles, bulging l… weapons under your shirt, by your… the colors of painted scraps of su…
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal
When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away
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…
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…
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
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,
1. THE SACRIFICE On this tile the knife like a sickle-moon hangs in the painted air