#AmericanWriters
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Among of green stiff old
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.