I love this poem by Syliva Plath. I just love it. Enjoy…
Frog Autumn
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds.
Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider.
Clearly The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere.
Our folk thin Lamentably.
Read it again and again and again and …
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