The last snowdrifts
have drawn themselves up
out of the light
clinging to winter.
Beyond them,
a muddy stubble field
has sponged up
all the darkness--
the February nights,
the iron stoves,
the ink of every letter
written in longing.
And the fencerow
goes on, up and over
the next low rise
and the next, casting
a cold, white shadow,
each gate still closed
to spring.
Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate of the United States
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5 comments:
Interesting the way he uses "up" -- thanks for a poem I'd never read!
Lovely! Thanks.
Never heard of this poet but I love this!
Lovely poem! That really sums it up beautifully.
I have turned into such a blogger. This poem totally makes me want to take pictures to illustrate it!
Sue
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