#AmericanWriters
January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now,
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,
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…
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
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,
Some say it was a pear Eve ate. Why else the shape of the womb,
I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand
Into the gravity of my life, the serious ceremonies of polish and paper and pen, has come this manic animal
What we want is never simple. We move among the things we thought we wanted: a face, a room, an open book
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
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…
The door of winter is frozen shut, and like the bodies of long extinct animals, cars lie abandoned wherever
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…
Because the shad are swimming in our waters now, breaching the skin of the river with their
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are bro… My mother and father still hovered