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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Trees
Snow
Winter
Poke
Ground
Sock
Clothes
Wears
Tree
Branch
Sheets
Branches

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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Rats live on no evil star
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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God is only mocked by believers.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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I imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag. Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
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The day of fire is coming, the thrush will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket.
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My life has appeared unclothed in court, detail by detail, death-bone witness by death-bone witness, and I was shamed at the verdict.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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