The rusty leaves crunch and crackle,
Blue haze hangs from the dimmed sky,
The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks —
Wind rushes by.
The last red berries hang from the thorn-tree,
The last red leaves fall to the ground.
Bleakness, through the trees and bushes,
Comes without sound.
Joan Mitchell (age 10)
Poetry, December 1935
I found this poem online. This work by a ten-year-old poet appeared in Poetry Magazine, when I was but 3 months old. She grew up to be an accomplished artist! Here is a link to her biography on the Poetry Foundation web page. There are many interesting links there to short articles about her and the fascinating art world people she knew in New York City and in France. This is a link to the books about her art and life on Amazon. I even have a couple of them. But to find that she was a published poet at age ten! What fun. I was sort of down tonight and this has perked me right up again.