I DON’T blame the kettle drums—they are hungry.
And the snare drums—I know what they want—they are empty too.
And the harring booming bass drums—they are hungriest of all..    .    .
The howling spears of the Northwest die down.
The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.
A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 11. Blizzard Notes
Volume: Cornhuskers
- Cornhuskers
Year: Published/Written in 1918
Poem of the Day: Nov 16 2009

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