Ted Kooser

In January

Only one cell in the frozen hive of night Is lit, or so it seems to us: This Vietnamese café, with its oily light, Its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers. Laughter and

A Birthday Poem

Just past dawn, the sun stands With its heavy red head In a black stanchion of trees, Waiting for someone to come With his bucket For the foamy white light, And then a long

After Years

Today, from a distance, I saw you Walking away, and without a sound The glittering face of a glacier Slid into the sea. An ancient oak Fell in the Cumberlands, holding only A handful

Selecting A Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful, And walking carefully up on my poetry At the loneliest moment of an afternoon, Her hair still damp at the neck From washing it. She should be