Poemas sobre el tema: meadow

Poemas sobre el tema «meadow» en Poets.by.

SoñadorDave Bonta

Cibola 65

Marcos (3) Panting from the climb, eyes on the trail, the friar almost runs into his guide, who stands with an arm outstretched behind to stop him short. Then without turning his head, hooks a fold of Marcos’s habit & tugs him forward like a trout, breathes in his ear: Mirad. Look. Within arrow’s range down the slope, beyond the pines with
SoñadorDave Bonta

Goldenrod Time

the meadow at dawn gives birth to ghosts: slow dancers of fog beneath a crescent moon that’s just been deserted by its entourage of stars the goldenrod’s dark gold mellows to yellow a whole 30-acre bowl of it between wooded ridges where the sun comes as a parishioner among the monarchs and the green darners and later the lopper with its steel grin
TristeDave Bonta

In the Hinterlands

the mountain hollow’s yellow meadow thrumming under another morning fog we curl around our private griefs before mourning becomes a form of conformity recall the headlonging rush of young buds the grand flourishes the common sense we made invasive weeds freed from all native constraints to wander the earth planting our flags
ContemplativoDave Bonta

The Hollow (17)

where we fought many a rotten tomato battle common snakeroot lawn and gardens gone back to meadow the buildings’ straight lines no more turning even the electric meter is digital now barn that once housed an elephant its great grey-green roof
SoñadorDave Bonta

Leave-taking

the trees react to colder nights by stripping naked the meadow too it’s as if they’re about to set off somewhere all excess baggage is left at the gate the sun too is a budget traveler abandoning most of the sky the days are so quiet now take me with you even if there’s nowhere to go even if it means leaving myself behind
ContemplativoDave Bonta

Early Meadow-Rue

Thalictrum dioicum Dioicum: separate houses. Here the male & there the female. Clouds rise from the male plant & dangle yellow weather. From the female plant, ten-fingered hands stretch in all directions. Without scent or nectar, what flying thing will be their go-between? There’s only the wind. But this meadow-rue has abandoned the meadow, so it must flower early or
ContemplativoDarcey Mckelvey

* * *

Morning to evening; half a day lost, staring out the window apone a green meadow. I wanted to know just one true thing about my very own soul, but left in thought and now - 2-inchs of snow lay on that once green meadow. Where did I go? How long did I seek out for you?, who would never leave me, my very own witness, my here.
ContemplativoRobert Frost

The Exposed Nest

You were forever finding some new play. So when I saw you down on hands and knees In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay, Trying, I thought, to set it up on end, I went to show you how to make it stay, If that was your idea, against the breeze, And, if you asked me, even help pretend To make it root again and grow afresh. But ’twas no make-believe with you to-day, Nor was the grass itself your real concern, Though I found your hand full of wilted fern, Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover. ’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground The cutter-bar had just gone champing over (Miraculously without tasting flesh) And left defenseless to the heat and light.
ContemplativoRobert Frost

The Last Mowing

There’s a place called Far-away Meadow We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhouse: The meadow is finished with men. Then now is the chance for the flowers That can’t stand mowers and plowers. It must be now; though, in season Before the not mowing brings trees on, Before trees, seeing the opening, March into a shadowy claim. The trees are all I’m afraid of, That flowers can’t bloom in the shade of; It’s no more men I’m afraid of; The meadow is done with the tame. The place for the moment is ours For you, oh tumultuous flowers,
ContemplativoRobert Frost

Rose Pogonias

A saturated meadow, Sun-shaped and jewel-small, A circle scarcely wider Than the trees around were tall; Where winds were quite excluded, And the air was stifling sweet With the breath of many flowers,-- A temple of the heat. There we bowed us in the burning, As the sun’s right worship is, To pick where none could miss them A thousand orchises; For though the grass was scattered, Yet every second spear Seemed tipped with wings of color, That tinged the atmosphere.
SoñadorWinifred Welles

Snowfall

Enchantment on the river And magic on the lake, The world has turned to crystal, Don't speak or it will break! The road seems new, the valley An unfamiliar place, Where trees are trimmed with spangles And stones with silver lace. A pink and white, furred rabbit With a star-tuft for a tail, Hops up the hill by moonlight And leaves a fairy trail. I think we mar the meadow So white, and smooth as suede, We ought to shine in satin Or glitter in brocade.