Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
"The Poet Thinks About The Donkey" by Mary Oliver
This is a poem by Mary Oliver which I've recently come to love:
Beautifully read ... but the poem was written by Mary Oliver!
ReplyDeleteHa! This is what happens when I write things in the evening when I'm under the weather :P Thank you for the correction!
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