By Rita Dove
You prefer me invisible, no more than
a crisp salute far away from
your silks and firewood and woolens…
a crisp salute far away from
your silks and firewood and woolens…
Explore Poems: Town & Country Life
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- By Frank X. Walkerat our estates
we sat on the side porch
stared at humble cabins
as young bucks
worked and sweated in the… - By Norma ColeRock or tree, inflexion
of tree, wild asparagus and watercress, weeping
and leaving, parting and fleeing… - By Jessie LeitzelThe end of summer
and our jalapeño plant
is wilting, its stem brittle
as the heat peels
away from us,
though… - By Kate PartridgeI don’t want to get emails from
the wolf people anymore, but
they know where I am—have known
precisely… - By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowUnder a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large… - By Tamsin MooreLong, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last … - By Remica Bingham-RisherBut for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the… - By James JoyceHe travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they … - By Rosalie MoffettMostly dumb, but hens are finely tuned
to length of days, won’t lay in earnest
till after the equinox… - By Isabel Duarte-GraySunday we lay hands
on a girl of ten hand on hand on
cornsilk hair. We sing
the secret language sung… - By Benjamin GucciardiWe lived in a stone farmhouse at the edge of town.
I’d been assigned to process asylum claims
and you… - By Anna TomlinsonSauerkraut festival, sauerkraut ice cream from a tiny paper cup.
Places you could get lost in. Bike … - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men… - By Tristan Tzarathen the clouds rolled in
young is the night that is to say
a cellophane softness ensued
which blew … - By CAConradGrowing up in a rural factory town I watched my creative family extend the grind oft monotonous jobs…
- By Tim Tim Chengfrom the soil
We make our son. From the soil we make our son biscuits. From the soil we make our son… - By Osip MandelstamToo black, too much indulged, living in clover,
all little withers, all air, all charity,
all crumbling… - By RK FauthTake me to the holler.
I want to see the cows
Big Mamaw’s grave and
something about tobacco fields.
… - By Daye PhillippoI have learned to love turning a bar of soap
and the calendar’s empty pages in my hands,
soft lather…