Resting Elizabeth Wilkinson Sheltered by a small oak, Though the breeze chills and bites my cheeks. My book in hand is warmed By soft stanzas As I read to icy air. No fainter than a whisper, still I worry about passersby Hearing my reciting of sonnets To the ones left cold. I figure they’d like to listen, So I sit on old green stones. Reading poems to whom I imagine Are the attentive dead. Who have lain there for years, Craving a verse.
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