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Poetry Month 2016: Linda Pastan
The Poets They are farmers, really– hoeing and planting in strict rows ripe with manure, coaxing each nebulous seed to grow. Year after year of drought or rainstorm, locust or killing frost, they bundle their hay into stacks of inflammable gold, or litter the barn floors with empty husks. At the market they acknowledge each other gruffly and move on, noting who has the more bountiful harvest, whose bushel baskets are laden with beets and tomatoes, tumescent with fruit.Read More