Nobody's trying to be poetic around here, but when I looked out this dreary morning and saw my little grandson's red wheelbarrow left down in the swale where brown flood waters rushed three weeks ago, this famous piece by William Carlos Williams came to mind:
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
Well, our family's chickens all live in Portland, sheltered by a sturdy coop our daughter, Mary, built under the fir trees. We haven't seen the gorgeous granddaughter who likes to help feed these chickens since August, and we have never yet been able to meet and hold in our arms her baby sister.
I'm sorry, can anybody tell me what the big deal is about this poem?