Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush, -
Weave him a coffin of rush,
Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.
by Peter FilkinsI.
Candle-flickered shadows on a beadboard ceiling,
the porch a private haven, parents sleeping
or unaware, maybe conspirators to our susurrus
of quiet talk, hoping after all we’d tie the ...