Friday, July 26, 2013
by Robert Fitzgerald
The adolescent night, breath of the town,
Porchswings and whispers, maple leaves unseen
Deploying moonlight quieter than a man dead
After the locust’s song. These homes were mine
And are not now forever, these on the steps
Children I think removed to many places,
Lost among hushed years, and so strangely known.
This business is well ended. If in the dark
The firefly made his gleam and sank therefrom,
(Read the whole poem here, at The Poetry Foundation.)
The round up is at Semicolon today.
Posted by Karen Edmisten at 12:35 PM