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I can hear them
In the distance.
Geese.
Sugaring shack,
Maple tree sap.
Boiled down to
Syrup.
Hopping, looking,
Head cocked to side.
Robins.
A patch of snow
Waits for the sun.
April.
© by Robert Manchester.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Robert Manchester lives in New Hampshire, surrounded by leafy trees, stone walls, memories of Robert Frost, and lots of living poetry legends. He’s been writing and publishing poems for 50+ years, but quite prefers writing to submitting, so seldom gets around to the latter. Robert confesses that he likes to write edgy poems about the "underbelly of life--the junk cars, tumbledown trailers, goat pens in the front yard, and the like," though he also likes haiku and, of late, is experimenting with syllable and meter.
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Eiken:
Lovely work.
Posted 04/27/2012 04:09 AM
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otzieinsc:
It makes me homesick....Robert Frost taught at my high school 1906-1911.
Posted 04/13/2012 06:58 PM
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LindaCrosfield:
You caught it!
Posted 04/11/2012 12:38 PM
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KevinArnold:
A pleasant rhythm. The correct form.
Posted 04/11/2012 08:57 AM
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John:
Wonderful poem. So much depends on April. And I like that the only three-syllable line is "boiled down to."
Posted 04/11/2012 08:03 AM
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phebe.davidson@gmail.com:
Nicely done!!!--April is indeed that sort of month.
Posted 04/11/2012 06:43 AM
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