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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Friday, October 4, 2013

November

source
We live on borrowed time
Now we must return
to our place of birth
The Earth beckons home
her wayward children
Leaves turn to soil
Gardens turn to seed
Ponds turn solid and impenetrable
November's breath 
petrifies as surely as Medusa's gaze
Summer maidens
shed their pale blossoms,
fruit into winter queens
Below the frozen ground,
they dream of innocence
and wait for the cleansing sun.



6 comments:

Kerry O'Connor said...

This is simply beautiful, LM.

Ella said...

Gorgeous-I love the whole poem and you took me on a dream! :D

hyperCRYPTICal said...

Lovely - I await the cleansing sun already!
Anna :o]

Marcoantonio Arellano said...

wonderfully put, mi amiga

Patricia A. McGoldrick said...

This opening line rings so true--We live on borrowed time. :)

Bouncin Barb said...

You're amazing!