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The maple leaves are always green up here,
and the waters of the Sound
always blue. I have been thinking
of you all day, at least
since breezes pushed the rain away
and sunshine burned the fog.
Even now, late afternoon, the coves
of Indian and Marrowstone islands
seem to steam. A small figure
slowly rows the water, stopping
here and there at crab pots in the bay.
In hills unfolding away
from the sleepy little town,
fine old cedars nod in the easy wind
like the kite above the grammar school,
like grand old men.
Copyright 2018 Estate of Sam Hamill. From After Morning Rain published by Tiger Bark Press. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the publisher.
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Sam Hamill (1943-2018) grew up on a Utah farm. He was Founding Editor of Copper Canyon Press and served as Editor there for thirty-two years. He taught in artist-in-residency programs in schools and prisons and worked with Domestic Violence programs. He directed the Port Townsend Writers Conference for nine years, and in 2003 founded Poets Against the War. He is the author of more than forty books, including celebrated translations from ancient Chinese, Japanese, Greek and Latin. (photo: Ian Boyden)
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Kenneth Rexroth… taught me to read poetry. thank you forever
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Thank you so much for this——-a Treasure !
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Absolutely beautiful ❤
I used to be one of those people who couldn't understand how a poem can be a poem if it doesn't rhyme.
This one changes everything.
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