The first warm buds that break their covers,
The first young twigs that burst in green,
The first blade that the sun discovers,
Starting the loosened earth between…"
by Edith Wharton
by Edith Wharton
"Some Days" a poem by Billy Collins animated and read by the poet
William Stafford said, “The hotter the coffee
the more important it is to extend
the handle of the mug” in offering
poem or lesson to a thirsty reader.
This poem is hot. Take this handle.
I read this poem by Jane Kenyon yesterday and this morning I thought “She has written one of my daily poems for me. No need to write it again.” It reminds me of my early morning walk today by a local pond.
I’ll have to find another moment from today to preserve here.
Walking Alone in Late Winter
How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler
symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair.
In the fields…
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again…
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am
"Touch Me" by Stanley Kunitz.
A love poem written by a old Stanley about a love of many years that I find very hopeful.
Spring layers grow fast and are lighter.
Slower summer growth is denser and darker.
Count the rings and know the age.
Shape and patterns show weather and damage.
All rings show when cut after life.
I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don’t cut that one.
I don’t cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
by Tess Gallagher from Dear Ghosts
from “Weather” by George Bilgere
read the rest of the poem at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org
George Bilgere has published six collections of poetry, most recently Imperial .
George’s poems are featured on Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” and Ted Kooser’s newspaper project “American Life in Poetry.” He has also been a guest on Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” live radio variety show.
George hosts a weekly radio show, WORDPLAY, an offbeat mix of poetry, comedy, and an ongoing exploration of the possibilities of the spoken word.
His website is http://www.georgebilgere.com/
— Billy Collins
— from The Song of Wandering Angus by William Butler Yeats
— Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
The best place to be is here,
at home, the two of us, while
others ski or eat out. It will be
quiet. We won’t watch the ball
fall, the crowd in Times Square.
They will celebrate while here
there is this night. Tomorrow
some will start over, or vow
to stop something; maybe try
again. Here the snow will
fall through the light over
the back door and gather
on the steps. We will hope
our daughter will be safe.
She will wonder what
the year will bring. Maybe
we will say a prayer.
Too Much Snow
by Louis Jenkins
Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain,does not immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family fortune. It’s the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends. I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother. She writes “Don’t send so much. I’m all alone now. I’ll never be able to use so much.” To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate; different from all the others.
"Too Much Snow" by Louis Jenkins, from Just Above Water