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Tag: Grace Vermeer


The Rain

All night the rain fell softly and slow, the sound on the roof, on the pond, on the fields falls on the memory, burning— but gentle the rain that quenches the night, that cleanses the ash in my mouth so that I wake to the wind in the cottonwood trees, the glittering silver-green leaves and

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On Writing

for Norma When I arrived at her door, she called from her chair, Don’t take off your shoes— but I did out of habit, sinking into the couch, bewildered with half-finished poems—mostly, she let them walk into the dark but one time she said, A poem wants life. I’d stand beneath cottonwood trees, listening to

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