Rebuked, she turned and ran
uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner
arsonist, held a match to her brain.
She observed her life: against her will
It's official. With reading the last few poems and this one- I am a huge fan of Jane Kenyon. She is a master wordsmith- Anger, the inner
arsonist, held a match to her brain. - - The stone trough was still
filled with water: she watched it
and received its calm. - - Then she closes the poem so briefly, clearly, lucid as the water she writes about. She died too young, God, we need her ilk on earth here guiding us
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12/2/2021 1:21:00 PM # 18.104.22.1683