Tag Archives: Jane Kenyon

“Portrait of a figure near water” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on October 5, 2012 by

Rebuked, she turned and ran uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner arsonist, held a match to her brain. She observed her life: against her will it survived the unwavering flame. xxx The barn was empty of animals. Only a … Continue reading →

Posted in poetry | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

“Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on July 16, 2012 by

I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years. . . . xxxxx I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper…. xxx When the young girl who starves sits down to a table she … Continue reading →

Posted in death, poetry, transition | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

“Bright Sun after Heavy Snow” by Jane Kenyon

Posted on February 13, 2012 by

A ledge of ice slides from the eaves, piercing the crusted drift. Astonishing how even a little violence eases the mind. In this extreme state of light everything seems flawed: the streaked pane, the forced bulbs on the sill that … Continue reading →

Posted in poetry, winter | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Otherwise by Jane Kenyon

Posted on October 8, 2011 by

I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did … Continue reading →

Posted in death, poetry | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments