Classic poem of the day
The gentian weaves her fringes,
The maple's loom is red.
My departing blossoms
Obviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness,
An hour to prepare;
And one, below this morning,
Is where the angels are.
It was a short procession,—
The bobolink was there,
An aged bee addressed us,
And then we knelt in prayer.
We trust that she was willing,—
We ask that we may be.
Summer, sister, seraph,
Let us go with the......
Member poem of the day
I draw closer to the threshold, you know?
The one that separates us from them.
Ever closer to unveiling the truth to the
question that's etched so deeply in the mind,
the very unnerving question.
Do we live just to die, only to be born
again?
Tonight the roots of life divide the light
that shines far ahead in t...
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