I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what,
Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.
Maundy Thursday tomorrow,
then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,
Dogwood blossoms like little crosses
All down the street,
lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.
Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things,
But I don’t think so. One knows
There is no end to the other world,
no matter where it is.
In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,
The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.
Or maybe it’s just the way the snow fell
a couple of days ago,
So white on the white snowdrops.
As our fathers were bold to tell us,
it’s either eat or be eaten.
Spring in its starched bib,
Winter’s cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.
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Comments about this poem (Last Supper by Charles Wright )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(22 March 1941 -)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
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- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- The Solitary Reaper, William Wordsworth
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
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