Summary Of John Keats Bolt Of Beauty

of the dirt. Neither brief delight, nor Dickinson’s “Bolt of beauty”—your graceful flutes of pink and white, and

pearled stamen tips are temple dancers— trembling their phallic dust upon sheathed center of your velvet bowl, urging your secrets out of hiding as

you celebrate things hidden in the earth… secrets growing from bulb’s womb stored in basement darkness for months, preparation for your balancing act

that allows gravity’s permission to let you to stretch to outermost margins, great curved spans carrying you to your destiny—your silent

song sung all night long, lingers more than stays…for beauty dares to be what at first we cannot imagine.

Winter Rain

“Receive the truth and let it be your balm” John Keats

After the stock market crash of ‘29, Ernest Spaulding lost his job at a private school back east and came home to farm between two rivers running sand; he painted his house Tuscan orange in a valley of white farm homes, bought milk cows from a slaughterhouse herd and work horses from canny men who made their living buying horses cheap and selling them high.

Reading late by lantern light, his window was single orange star low on the horizon, seen by men during calving season, shaking their heads at this idealism. Once a week he hitched his young team of horses to steel-rimmed box-wagon and drove them to town to sell milk and eggs and buy groceries, difficult because young horses only want to go back to pasture
—undiscipline creasing smiles on sun-leathered faces of