ladylinda
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Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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Post by ladylinda on Sept 30, 2014 16:29:35 GMT -5
Frog Autumn
Sylvia Plath
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence. The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly The genius of plenitude Houses himself elsewhere. Our folk thin Lamentably.
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ladylinda
Moderatorz
Poetry Editor
July 2011 Member of the Month, May 2014 Member of the Month
Posts: 4,901
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Post by ladylinda on Oct 1, 2014 16:03:08 GMT -5
Because I like to finish each thread with a song here's a great one about September.
Buffy Sainte Marie - Sweet September Morning
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