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Bidwell Hollow Blog

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Poets' and writers' birthdays for today, Jan. 9, include William Meredith, Lizette Woodworth Reese, Simone de Beauvoir, and Walter Brooks. You'll find today's poem, Reese's "A Violin at Dusk," below. Thank you for reading and for sharing Bidwell Hollow with

Poets' and writers' birthdays for today, Jan. 8, include John Gneisenau Neihardt, Karen Tei Yamashita, and Stephen Hawking. Today's poem "While Loveliness Goes By," which you'll find below. Thanks for reading, and, if you enjoy Bidwell Hollow, please share us

Writers' and poets' birthdays for today, Jan. 7, include Zora Neale Hurston, Sofi Oksanen, and Louise Imogen Guiney. Guiney's "Borderland" is our poem for today, which you'll find below. Thanks for reading, and, if you enjoy Bidwell Hollow, please share

Writers' and poets' whose birthdays are today, Jan. 6, include Carl Sandburg, Elizabeth Strout, and E. L. Doctorow. It's from Sandburg that we have today's poem, "Shirt," which you'll find below. Thank you for reading. Carl Sandburg Today in a three-room cottage

The Snow Fairy I Throughout the afternoon I watched them there, Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky, Whirling fantastic in the misty air, Contending fierce for space supremacy. And they flew down a mightier force at night, As though in heaven there

A January Dandelion All Nashville is a chill. And everywhere Like desert sand, when the winds blow, There is each moment sifted through the air, A powdered blast of January snow. O! thoughtless Dandelion, to be misled By a few warm days to leave thy natural

The Letter Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly’s legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves? Or of my uncertain window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of

The Thinker My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pom-poms. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides. All night they lie together under her bed’s edge. Shivering I catch sight of them and

The Call of the Open Which yet joined not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where