"Painting" in the title of this poem is a verb.
it snows
weighty
messages
on window panes
like bad fortunes
on trees
silver
leafed
flakes
drift
in warm companies
and paint
wooden canvas
and grassen earth
and warm hearth
to glow
red
in the wheated field
a fox prints
touching painting
messages
against the
hardened ground
‘neath covers
of wooded sky
she sleeps
nested
with nut and corn
and blanket tail
hidden
from early frost
to evening contentment
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1 comment:
I love this poem. LOVE IT. I want to memorize it. Give the masses more!
Last night Cole's class was out of control in the best way possible, and Brice brought the most amazing honey mustard for sandwiches. You should come next week!
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