i.m. Jane Pepperdene When buried spring, in morning, wakes again all winter’s dreamless night has let remain, songbirds, returning north, will map in song a heaven crows have haunted all year long; the rabbits’ young will graze along a fence furred with rough vines to slow the owl’s advance; those buds curled damp against the dawn will glimpse the au (...)
Poetry
Late Aubade
—Matthew Buckley Smith
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