‘Be Music, Night’
Be music, night,
That her sleep may go
Where angels have their pale tall choirs . . .
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Lucinda Matlock
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners, . . .
The Luggage
Travel is a vanishing act
Only to those who are left behind.
What the traveler knows
. . .
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow. . . .
