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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
Sheets
Branches
Trees
Snow
Winter
Poke
Ground
Sock
Clothes
Wears
Tree
Branch

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus.
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Death, I need my little addiction to you. I need that tiny voice who, even as I rise from the sea, all woman, all there, says kill me, kill me.
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There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.
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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Abundance is scooped from abundance yet abundance remains.
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No matter whose bed you die in the bed will be yours for your voyage onto the surgical andiron of God.
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My sleeping pill is white. It is a splendid pearl it floats me out of myself, my stung skin as alien as a loose bolt of cloth.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
Anne Sexton