The Tortoise In Keystone Heights
When I knew, it was raining.
Winter in decline. I was tired.
You in your soaked shirt diffused
into the western sky bulging with clouds,
speeding cars a few feet away—
why would they not slow down?
Though afternoon, a slip of moon
busied itself with rising,
and it had to mean something.
If only the moon were not out.
You shoveled the crushed tortoise
and her eggs off the highway into the dirt.
Those soft, white eggs.
This is how I love you:
drenched with Florida rain
and looking like hell,
Florida itself a hell,
the moonlit rain a rain of fire.
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Comments about this poem (The Tortoise In Keystone Heights by Deborah Ager )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(August 19, 1902 – May 19, 1971)
Edwin Arlington Robinson
(22 December 1869 – 6 April 1935)
(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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