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On Sundays, We Read Poetry

Each Sunday, I post a brief introduction to a collection of poetry I've been loving. I highlight one poem that I think really sings. No review. No need. If it's here, you'll know I recommend it. If you have one to recommend (yours or someone else's), send it along. I'll do my best to be here every Sunday.


June slipped through our fingers like water, did it not? Here, then is a reminder of what we missed and a look ahead to what July might hold, courtesy of former Poet Laureate Ted Kooser and his The Wheeling Year: A Poet's Field Book. Not quite poetry, but such a close cousin that it counts.

June moves for Kooser, too, it seems:

Bumper to bumper, the days stream past the day-old baked good store though sometimes a Sunday morning pulls in, driven by some old man who stops in the present for a moment to buy a little bag of yesterdays. But mostly the days, by the dozen, dry out and get thrown to the birds, sparrows and starlings to whom each hour is every bit as tasty as the last.

And then, July:

Heat lightning: at the horizon, July in heavy boots paces the hot floor of the darkness. A bulb in a wobbly lamp jiggles. Or is that you, my friend, approaching across the firefly hills, swinging a sloshing pail of moonlight?


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