Gradual Clearing (Amy Clampitt Poems)
Late in the day the fogwrung itself out like a spongein glades of rain,sieving the half-invisiblecove with speartips;then, in a ...
Late in the day the fogwrung itself out like a spongein glades of rain,sieving the half-invisiblecove with speartips;then, in a ...
Sylvia's hair is like the night,Touched with glancing starry beams;Such a face as drifts thro' dreams,This is Sylvia to the ...
Now wind torments the field, turning the white surface back on itself, back and back on itself, like an animal ...
1 The golden-rod is yellow; 2 The corn is turning brown; 3 The trees in apple orchards 4 With fruit ...
Frost on the fields draped on the weeds the milkweed, the bramble the vines, the reeds casting shadows in the ...
ragged wool hanging the wet milkweed seeds tethered, connected moored in their pods tied still to the ground Hovering limp, ...
In the early morning after the girls were safe at school the sun rising slowing over the autumn morn' The ...
Would that we would each, all of us, especially me, would have eyes, clear eyes that would seek out, that ...
a small patch, a cluster cattails in the median glowing, glistening December sun, midday Ready to burst open like milkweed ...
Finding the tares, the weeds the grasses, the ragweed, milkweed and plantain, growing, thriving in the lilies, the beds, the ...
Like a bloom of tongues, tasting the fall air, a shepherd's hook of a milkweed plant heavy pod drawn to ...
It was cold this morning, cut into you cold my open suit coat, thin dress white shirt not quite up ...
a cluster of open milkweed pods brown flat seeds, a ball of cotton candy silk waiting for the wind, to ...
Walking to the courthouse to make copies for a pending case no urgent brisk walk for arguments, for the challenge ...
A skin of frost on the ground, in the branches, the yellowed fields film of ice on the pond low ...
Early Sunday morning leaving the highway Sparkles off the shoulder draw our gaze Light refracting and pulsing new frost clinging ...
He reads my latest attempt at a poem and is silent for a long time, until it feels like that ...
Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float Tendril and string against the crumbling wall, Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief, ...
Sometimes we collide, tectonic plates merging, continents shoving, crumpling down into the molten veins of fire deep in the earth ...
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers---- The rector, the midwife, the sexton, ...
A dream tree, Polly's tree: a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other ...
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