In a sleepy English village with a pretty seaside view, a tiny white thatched cottage sits, perfect just for two.
Wild lily of the valley grows along the garden path. And underneath an oak tree sits a bench and old bird bath.
This picture-perfect cottage that is full of country grace has freshly painted window sills and curtains made of lace.
Pink roses frame the lush green grass where robins love to sing, and in the distance you can hear the local church bells ring. This charming little home would bring a smile to any face.
And right beside the garden gate, a sign reads Julia's place.
In the intermediate zone between heaven and hell
opinions and complaints, after much moaning, may
come to be held in common.
The way a flock of chickadees
moves through the woods, cheerfully,
each bird taking a turn on point.
All meaning must be found, here, in the middle zone,
notwithstanding fears that rend and own us,
of dying unknown.
A Spring day
the flycatcher broke its neck against our bay window
nothing changed.
I buried it, somewhat reverently, in a shallow grave.
No differently, really, than I would a man
who'd died suddenly.
Who'd left footprints in the snow
which became wild lily-of-the-valley, running pine
then snow again in time.
After long enmity
Sally hugs me, asks if I've been happy.
A moment in a year.
February, the light is long, more direct.
It's meaningless, repetitious
but held dear.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.