Bob Bowers

Bob Bowers Poems

Mary Oliver, Poet

She asks me, in The Swan,
Whether I have figured out what beauty is for
Whether I have changed my life,
This Mary Oliver,

Growing Old Together

As I look through the frosted panes
Of my study,
Out at the leaves,
Now more brown than gold,

Fallen Fruit

In a fair, still spot
Beneath our apple orchard tree,
For it was but one,
The rest long gone to yards

Cold Days

It is spring.
Daffodils erupt from snow-clouded earth,
Their yellow brightness brighter
Than the warming orb of sun

Dying, Slowly

It was his eyes
That told me of death.
Though I did not know it
At the time

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