Whiffletree Poem by Carl Sandburg
Whiffletree
Rating: ★3.5
GIVE me your anathema.
Speak new damnations on my head.
The evening mist in the hills is soft.
The boulders on the road say communion.
The farm dogs look out of their eyes and keep thoughts from the corn cribs.
Dirt of the reeling earth holds horseshoes.
The rings in the whiffletree count their secrets.
Come on, you.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: tree
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4/26/2024 6:09:42 PM # 1.0.0.1119
