I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge

It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...

In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…

First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.

I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine

Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous

All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.

Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…