Tuesday, October 09, 2012

Great Regulars: This poem feels urgent. Not

cheerful, but urgent. Like the coming of wind and cold. The speaker is admonished that right now, this night, the year is no longer in favor and is about to turn. Even the field is "disenchanted." All is desolate.

from Fleda Brown: Traverse City Record-Eagle: On Poetry: End of summer has own beauty


No comments :