The first night at the monastery,
a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,
long after the first frost.
A short stick of incense burns
thirty minutes, fresh thread of pine
rising through the old pine of the hours.
Summer is trapped under the thin
glass on the brook, making
the sound of an emptying bottle.
Before the long silence,
the monks make a long soft rustling,
adjusting their robes.
The deer are safe now. Their tracks
are made of snow. The wind has dragged
its branches over their history.
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Comments about this poem (Pine by Chase Twichell )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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