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Point Road Snow
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. W. Stevens The Snow Man What happened? Well, we went into it. On horseback, in ox-carts, afoot, Wagon loads west went, stayed, died. How their children stayed warm: Inside buffalo hides, sod huts. Where burned the peat fires now The distillates of an old swamp Dry the linens and our blue genes. Few there are who recall the long drought; Gone are the shears and blades Who knew the songs of wild grasses. Daddy's gone; Mama's goin' - Yes - as are we - Was that a Ford jus' went by? When we came out of it We'd been convinced that only Our boots were wet, worn, cold. So simple, so honest. A great feast was had. Look back over your shoulder Every now & then, And once in awhile Just to know how, why. How lovely is that snow That early warning sign Still melting here on my dock; The bass hunting in shadows, shallows, The red and burnt oranges of maples, A ripple on the skin of the gray lake. Here lies the history of man, Here, close to the water. An early snow, the falling leaves, Silence so loud I shiver. There's cold clay beneath my feet, and My name's on the post near the road. Come on in; sit by the fire. Tell us a new story.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2010-03-02 18:11:10
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Thomas, This I like. I feel like pulling up to your fire and telling you of things you haven't heard. You sound like an old codger whose been there, done that.......let's chew the fat. You owe it to us youngsters to share. The clay lays cold under my feet too. Dellena
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