Afternoon Rain in State Street (Amy Lowell Poem)
Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, Slant lines of black rain In front of the up and down, wet stone ...
Cross-hatchings of rain against grey walls, Slant lines of black rain In front of the up and down, wet stone ...
My mother-- preferring the strange to the tame: Dove-note, bone marrow, deer dung, Frog's belly distended with finny young, Leaf-mould ...
The crowded street his playground is, a patch of blue his sky; A puddle in a vacant lot his sea ...
The drying puddle of soda almost invisible to the eye like the oasis in the desert the ancient watering hole ...
leaves of the reeds, the grasses paint peeling on the wet clapboards like the curl of the flat ribbon pulled ...
There it was, once again melting my heart, a puddle of goo, no longer thinking of the day ahead Shy, ...
Like a loving living raindrop falling into the puddle of our lives rippling, echoing, urging outward, expressions of that love, ...
A cold gray afternoon cocooned indoors, watching the scene change outside, in the colors, the feel, the mood morphing day, ...
The tart had been melted before it sat solid in the warmer on the back of the stove She put ...
The red, red maple leaves festooned with pearls of ice tiny droplets frozen on the fallen the dying red leaves, ...
Buckets and buckets of sap, culled from willing maples pouring into the vat the cauldron atop the old, crumbling outdoor ...
Tide pools caught in the rocks fishbowls without bubblers waiting for the tide change Microcosm of the sea under glass ...
White knuckles on the wheel holding fast to my lane between the wiper strokes and blur of reckless drivers on ...
The big one went to sleep as to die and dreamed he became a tiny one. So tiny as to ...
One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark, Putting green oil in starboard side lamp, His wife came ...
a novel by Richard Brautigan THE COVER FOR TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA The cover for Trout Fishing in America is ...
WORSEWICK Worsewick Hot Springs was nothing fancy. Somebody put some boards across the creek. That was it. The boards dammed ...
Long ago in a poultry yard One dull November morn, Beneath a motherly soft wing A little goose was born. ...
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer And swerving easily away, as ...
Purple as tulips in May, mauve into lush velvet, purple as the stain blackberries leave on the lips, on the ...
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover? I wish to retire till the party's over. Since three o'clock I've ...
Behold the duck. It does not cluck. A cluck it lacks. It quacks. It is specially fond Of a puddle ...
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets, machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk canvases, ...
Master Timmy brisk and airy Blythe as Oberon the fairy On thy head thy cousin wishes Thousand and ten thousand ...
A Recitation for Martha Wakefield, Three Years Old There was a little turtle. He lived in a box. He swam ...
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