Her sickness brought me to Connecticut.
Mornings I walk the dog: that part of life
is intact. Who's painted, who's insulated
...
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By now the streams must run under a skin of ice, white air-bubbles passing erratically, like blood cells through a vein. Soon the mail, forwarded, will begin to reach me here. - ITALIAN: Ormai i ruscelli devono correre sotto uno strato di ghiaccio, bianche bolle d'aria transitano erratiche, come cellule sanguigne in una vena. Presto la posta, inoltrata, inizierà a raggiungermi qui.
Christmas poems have messages of great ideas for love and compassion. I like this poem too.
''Now it's angels, festoons, waist-high candles, and swans pulling sleighs.'' Strange.. this passage makes me remember a Christmas in Zimbabwe, more than 30 years ago.. Festoons like those ones, downtown Harare.. but not a single snowflake.. just warm, beutiful sunny days.. :)