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Poem of the Week 9-19-11

Root Cellar
By Theodore Roethke

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

Short URL: http://www.vannuysnewspress.com/?p=18952

Posted by on Sep 20 2011. Filed under Poem of the Week. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry
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