End of Summer

Where is the time to read a poem? Where is that magical moment of resonating rhyme? No more. Only verbose words from glimmering news print, or perhaps occasional prose or a shifty novel roam around the roaming mind. But Poetry is a must for a breathing soul. Poetry is, what it is. Reason to live. Reason to die.

Read the following poem by James Richardson in this week's The New Yorker.
Link:
End of Summer