Now this paste of ash and water; water slipping over ice, greenish brown water, white ice, November ice, thin as glass, shot with air. The kinglet, soundless, against the yellow grapeleaves of the arbor, smallest of birds; shrill day, the blowing, oily Atlantic off Strong's Neck; the salt smell drifts, blown through the newish Cape Cod homes. On such days children fall down wells, or drown falling through thin first ice, or fall reaching after the last apple the picker neglected, the tree leafless, the apple spoiled anyway by frost; toad freezes, snake's taken his hole; the cat makes much shorter trips; dog's bark is louder. The green has floated from earth, moved south, or drifted upward at night, invisible to us. Man walks, throwing off alone thin heat; this cold's life, death's steamy mark and target. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWILIGHT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE A QUOI BON DIRE by CHARLOTTE MEW THE PILGRIM FATHERS by JOHN PIERPONT HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS by JONATHAN SWIFT THIS FLESH by KENNETH SLADE ALLING WOMEN'S WAR THOUGHTS by MARY HUNTER AUSTIN VERSES, RESPECTFULLY & AFFECTIONALLY INSCRIBED TO PROFESSIONAL FRIEND by BERNARD BARTON |