Hitting Home

 
Poetry does it like nothing else.

A favorite.

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Winter Night Poem for Mary
 

As I started home after dark
I looked into the sky and saw the new moon, 
an old man with a basket on his arm.
He walked among the cedars in the bare woods.
They stood like guardians, dark
as he passed. He might have been singing, 
or he might not. He might have been sowing
the spring flowers, or he might not. But I saw him 
with his basket, going along the hilltop.

-Wendell Berry