Welcome back to the Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network. I'm David Kern.

Today's poem is 12th Morning, or What You Will, by Elizabeth Bishop. Elizabeth Bishop was born in

1911, and she lived until 1979. She was consultant in poetry to the Library of Congress from 1949 to 1950 and won the Pulitzer Prize

for her poetry in 1956.

She won the National Book Award in 1970 and received various other awards and honors throughout

her career.

She is without a doubt one of the greatest poets of the 20th century. Yesterday was in the

Western Church Epiphany and in the Eastern Church Theophony. Either way, it was the 12th day of Christmas,

thus making today the 13th day, but yet I figured reading a poem called 12th morning would still

work. I figured you wouldn't take too much offense at the fudging of the dates a little bit.

So here is 12th morning or What You Will by Elizabeth Bishop.

Like a first coat of whitewash when it's wet, the thin gray mist lets everything show through.

The black boy, Balthazar,

a fence, a horse, a foundered house,

cement and rafters sticking from a dune.

The company passes off these white but shop-worn dunes as lawns.

Shipwreck, we say.

Perhaps this is a house wreck.

The sea's off somewhere, doing nothing doing nothing listen an expelled breath and faint faint faint faint or are you hearing things the sandpiper's heartbroken cries the fence three strand barbed wire all pure rust

three dotted lines comes forward hopefully across

the lots.

Thinks better of it.

...