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Jane Kenyon

Spring 1989

We Let the Boat Drift

By Jane Kenyon

I set out for the pond, crossing the ravine where seedling pines start up like sparks between the disused rails of the Boston and Maine. The grass in the field […]

Winter 1985

Siesta: Barbados

By Jane Kenyon

From bed we heard the gardener move down the hedge of oleander, chopping out the weeds with her long, curved cutlass, and singing. A lizard gripped the coarse stucco of […]

Winter 1985

Back from the City

By Jane Kenyon

After three days and nights of rich food and late talk in overheated rooms, of walks between mounds of garbage and human forms bedded down for the night under rags, […]

Spring 1984

Who

By Jane Kenyon

These lines are written by an animal, an angel, a stranger sitting in my chair, by someone who already knows how to live without trouble among books, and pots and […]

Spring 1984

At the Town Dump

By Jane Kenyon

Sometimes I nod to my neighbor, as he flings lath and plaster or cleared brush on the swelling pile. Talk is impossible; the dozer shudders toward us, flattening everything in […]