The Visitor (Carolyn Forche Poem)
In Spanish he whispers there is no time left. It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat, the ache ...
In Spanish he whispers there is no time left. It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat, the ache ...
The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour the bottle in your coat half voda half ...
By way of a vanished bridge we cross this river as a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain. ...
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. ...
Our life is a fire dampened, or a fire shut up in stone. --Jacob Boehme, De Incarnatione Verbi Outside everything ...
Dipping our bread in oil tins we talked of morning peeling open our rooms to a moment of almonds, olives ...
Grandma, come back, I forgot How much lard for these rolls Think you can put yourself in the ground Like ...
© 2020 Inspirational Stories