Spring 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 2 Poetry |

A Scene

How much time has passed. The great root Has spilled the wall. The children put on years and went to look for fruit. Against earth late flowers are pressed. The air is still And cold. Leaves tick with frost. In the old wood the paths of foreboding Are choked with light. A fading shadow of bird-flight Lifts from the grass. The brook runs its course. In the field Brilliance has grown. The great tree will never yield. The wall is down.

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Ritual

By Edward Weismiller

How much time has passed. The great root Has spilled the wall. The children put on years and went to look for fruit. Against earth late flowers are pressed. The […]

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