All In June

- W.H. Davies

A week ago I had a fire

To warm my feet, my hands and face;

Cold winds, that never make a friend,

Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,

And buttercups in thousands grow;

I'll show the world where I have been--

With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,

Where bumble-bees for hours and hours

Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,

To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

A Beautiful Tribute to a Beloved Mother . . .

After losing her mother to brain cancer, Kirsty Mitchell created this beautiful series in her honor. This piece is entitled The Storyteller. (Kirsty's mother was an English teacher) Check out more of Kirsty's work {HERE}.

History

- Robert Lowell

History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.

from: Selected Poems. Copyright 1976.