Allan Cooper

Fall, for as long as I can remember, has been my favorite season. The rich

Night had suddenly become

I It is night;

apple tree

IN his introduction to an anthology of tiny poems, the sea and the honeycomb, American poet Robery Bly says that most English poets write only long poems.

I was waiting at a station of the blood

if the dream calls again,

Today I fished the brook again,

This first heavy snowfall

A summer years ago, I found the dancing water-