 |
 |
In a message dated 9/7/01 9:39:03 GMT Daylight Time, [log in to unmask] writes: > > > On a day such as this > with its sides torn out moaning > for the wind to return > and tend its ragged wound > > on such a day > > to recover gently the buried hyacinths > swollen with ten seasons > and the little ones > gathering a bowl of unwashed moons > > is to do what the wind cannot bring itself to do > have just been catching up on reading through the list emails out of a busy week. Found myself reading and rereading this little poem - it has a combination of simplicity, and richness of language/association that I aspire to thanks for posting it Liz