Snow drifts from the sky whitely combing
the red and golden yellow leaves;
when it melts,
bare limbs climb into the sky.
I want to lie on those whorls of wood,
like mastheads of stately Nordic goddesses
or my tender frozen ancestral grandmothers,
dreaming of Daphne, firey gowns
stripped by solar winds to stark
nude greys of Winter.
Thick ridges of weather
carved rivulets
in the bark.
_____
Visit Riverside Rambles for the 18th edition of the Festival of the Trees, where this little poem is included among many great entries.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Hi Brenda - I found your post through the festival of the trees. Lovely poem - very textural. :)
ReplyDeleteJLB
Thanks, JLB!
ReplyDeleteWow! You almost reverse the "picture=1000 words" claim.
ReplyDeleteA.Decker, that's very sweet! Thanks!
ReplyDelete