These fields can never be
simply themselves. Their green
seems such a tender green,
their contours so significant
to the tourists who stare
towards the far range of mountains
as if they are listening
to the page of history tearing
or to what they know themselves of warfare
between brothers. In this scenery
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Elegy
By Linda Pastan
Our final dogwood leans over the forest floor offering berries to the birds, the squirrels. Already have an account? Log in Join KR for even more to read. Sign up […]
The Crossing
By Linda Pastan
I wake to the small applause of rain, then sleep again and somewhere between dusk and dawn a curtain falls and rises. Already have an account? Log in Join KR […]
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