Frog Autumn
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 elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
(Source: allpoetry.com)
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balena reblogged this from fuckyeahsylviaplath and added:
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither....
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itsmyparty- reblogged this from fuckyeahsylviaplath and added:
I read this aloud in my poetry class senior year, with Vandagriff pacing behind me.
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