American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Barbara Crooker

Praise the light of late November,the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;though they are clothed in night, they do notdespair. Praise what little there’s left:the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadowof dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,the remains of… Continue reading Barbara Crooker

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