Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. ~Carl Sandburg

It is hot today, (and my mind goes on to say “dry enough for cutting grain”–an opening to a poem I read many times as a teenager in the first poetry anthology I can remember owning, Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle.) The poem is “August From My Desk,” by Roland Flint. How many pleasant echoes arise unexpectedly from poetry I have known! And I can’t help thinking how many more there would be if I had read more widely.

I love the music of poetry. There is immense beauty to me in its rhythm and flow. Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, says Whitman. It’s thrilling.

I couldn’t find a link I liked, but you can find the poem with your favorite search engine.

What echoes for you?


One Response to Echoes

  1. Karen says:

    I remember that book! (Which is a bit scarey as I oftentimes forget so much.) Don’t remember why I remember it,but it’s not a title you “think” you remember. I guess all memories are becoming echos for me…..

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