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Albert Cook, winter, in English Clear filters

SadAlbert Cook

The Marginal Farmer

Lean cheek, lone head. The work is never done. It wears a differing aspect if his hands Plying their utmost, keep a bit ahead. In rocky soil scarified a seed Might or might not grow, all depending. Here even the wind is meagre, and light Drifts cold through stalks and pods and numb fingers. Rough graveyard of his tribulation, rocks, Glare-flecked, igneous, lie thickly buried Throughout his fields, whose produce he eats, A stale season's labor boiled, on oilcloth, With the same set resigned faraway look. Elsewhere the skies are blue. His lips are blue. And the snowfence, a poor windbreak, is not up yet. Frost has heaved late earth and gemmed the rocks. In the old silo this year's corn garnered
ContemplativeAlbert Cook

Personalities

I met a man whose whetstone was the thought Obduracy of will could masquerade As soft compliance and never be found out. He filled his unlocked living room with jade. The unspoken may exasperate anyone. The stone, however fierce the sun, stays stone. Another drove afield for the slightest end In a small car. He puffed the folderol. One drink, and I was cast his long lost friend; A second, and we were pressed to weep a full Lament unmeant for how a ruby room Could all but deep fidelity consume. There was a girl nervous over the lifelong Weaning she had fallen heir to. Love was a plum She thought she had to swallow to get along. Her sole terror the degradation of humdrum

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