Saturday Evening Edition
I know I've been a little over-active, but just one more thing; I was cleaning out my spam box and found some spam poetry that I enjoyed, and want to share:
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
How can they get the point of how a world
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Merely a mockery of spring
Preface to the 1970 Edition
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Between the high and the low, in this night.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Lucky the bell-still full and deep of throat,
Summer bees were saying
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
It's very soothing. Thanks, Adobe Creative Suite 3 spammer.
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
How can they get the point of how a world
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
Merely a mockery of spring
Preface to the 1970 Edition
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Between the high and the low, in this night.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Lucky the bell-still full and deep of throat,
Summer bees were saying
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)
It's very soothing. Thanks, Adobe Creative Suite 3 spammer.