Featured Poem: The Descent of Winter

The Descent of Winter by William Carlos Williams


There are no perfect waves—

Your writings are a sea

full of misspellings and

faulty sentences. Level. Troubled

A center distant from the land

touched by the wings

of nearly silent birds

that never seen to rest—

This is the sadness of the sea—

waves like words, all broken—

a sameness of lifting and falling mood.

I lean watching the detail

of brittle crest, the delicate

imperfect foam, yellow weed

one piece like another—

There is no hope— if not a coral

island slowly forming

to wait for birds to drop

the seeds will make it habitable


the brilliant field

of rainwet orange


by the red grass

and oilgreen bayberry

the last yarrow

on the gutter

white by the sandy


and a white birch

with yellow leaves

and few

and loosely hung

and a young dog

jumped out

of the old barrel


in this strong light

the leafless beechtree

shines like a cloud

it seems to glow

of itself

with a soft stript light

of love

over the brittle


But there are

on second look

a few yellow leaves

still shaking

far apart

just one here one there

trembling vividly

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