By Carey Salerno
I watched the first weeds burgeon and decided this was the summer
I wouldn’t stop them, every inch of …
I wouldn’t stop them, every inch of …
Explore Poems: Trees & Flowers
Showing 1-20 of 848
Filter Results
- By Nicole GonzalezTranslated By Nicole GonzalezAbínígo ch’iłbaa hózhóní
ch’ínádzi’,
Bí ch’ilátahózhóón nídiich’ah
dóó ádík’as,
Tłeé’go ch’łbaahózhóní
ná… - By Nicole GonzalezTranslated By Nicole GonzalezIn the morning the flower
petal wakes up,
the flower petal yawns and
stretches,
the flower petal goes… - By Camille T. DungyAsk me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment. - By Emily DickinsonWe should not mind so small a flower
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the … - By Janiru LiyanageOur neighbor’s orange tree is in full bloom fat and overgrown and spilling
sun-bright fists over our… - By SapphoTranslated By Dan Beachy-Quicka tender girl plucking the tender flowers
- By SapphoTranslated By Dan Beachy-QuickI myself in summer hours wove together flowers
- By Paul Laurence DunbarAs a quiet little seedling
Lay within its darksome bed,
To itself it fell a-talking,
And this is what… - By Jericho BrownAster. Nasturtium. Delphinium. We thought
Fingers in dirt meant it was our dirt, learning
Names in heat… - By W. S. MerwinLate in May as the light lengthens
toward summer the young goldfinches
flutter down through the day for… - By Mei-mei Berssenbrugge1
A path through the woods winds along a stream that flows into the ocean.
I look up at new leaves on … - By Suzanne S. RancourtI can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.
He worked in the woods and filled his pockets
with … - By Emily Wilsonstripped batting of cloud
glimpsed ligaments
dusk coming up under
lithographic, nib-hatchings
instruments click
the fine-sprung locust
replicate dinge along hill-lines
tailings of umber, the rust smudge
There is still that hemmed ocean of oaks
the various reds, the somehow
silver cast over the... - By Angela BallI am drinking a tree. Not exactly.
Not as exactly as the branches
lay, self-sectioned, over the round space
they had shaded, till workers
piled them at the curb. Not as exactly
as I planted it, seventeen years
past. A fig. The map
of its leaf. Before... - By Joseph O. LegaspiEvery morning I pull up the blinds,
Letting in the trees into the study.
Their seasonal shadows first hover
Then blend into subconsciousness.
They speak to the desk, assembled
Into a four-legged beast, yet remains
Kin in their kingdom of wilderness.
They conjure up each other at... - By Jessica AbughattasNeighbors
pass, two lines of smoke
in hooded sweatshirts,
from the sober living house
next door, as I stand in the front yard
watering dirt.
I ask little of the garden—
mere inspiration—working
my shovel into bare earth.
While witnesses in neckties
carry scriptures, county sheriff
circles the block.
A couple fights
in... - By CAConrad“don’t tell me it was
the wind!” Frank shouts
“THAT TREE
WAVED
AT ME!” - By Cole SwensenGiven: The trees along a river seem constantly in motion; perhaps it’s the rhythm inherent in their equidistant planting, inciting a sense of walking, or perhaps it’s the movement of the river itself, a visio-kinetic echo connected to the viewer....
- By Elizabeth MetzgerWalking home God peeled a major eucalyptus to the ground.
Genuinely uncertain, he asked
Can a life be...