A cold evening, the first snow of the season has fallen.
I get a coffee and look at the powdered streets.
With the coffee comes a glass of ice cold water.
The market is a dark row of tarps and stacked crates.
A cold evening, the first snow of the season has fallen.
I get a coffee and look at the powdered streets.
With the coffee comes a glass of ice cold water.
The market is a dark row of tarps and stacked crates.
it is still outside, the hills are static their shape, their surface, their life unseen wind chills and in the trees the pine cones sing a cold song of the dying winter a flower is forgotten by the frost its purple head needs no big images there will be no echo when it falls sorrow ...
Richard Kenney (b. 1948) is an American poet and professor of English. His work has been praised for his deft use of language and formal poetic forms. Today, I read an innocent morning poem: Aubade Cold snap. Five o'clock. Outside, a heavy frost—dark footprints in the brittle grass; a cat's. Quick coffee, jacket, watch-cap, keys. ...
And so we wake up and look around. We are in a house made of mud, the traditional Luo way of building, and we are surrounded by cattle, chicken, children, long grass and aloe vera plants. This is it. They show us the plot of land where we are going to build the orphanage and ...
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