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

Sunday, December 7, 2014

Untitled

We linger at a crossroads
where snow buries the crocus
and the muddy rose struggles
to think of blooming
Thorny nights
of suicidal fervor
The owls bury their heads
under soft feathers
and hope for sleep
You are but a thread
in my fabric of worry
The birds keep quiet
when the sun finally shines.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash

8 comments:

Marian said...

ooohhhh... YOU get outta MY head. :)
this is beautiful.

Hannah said...

You've created a feast of imagery...I love the organic feel...roses, owls, the mud and snow...beautiful contrasting colors in this.

C.C. said...

"you are but a thread in my fabric of worry"---wow, that is such a powerful metaphor...so poignant and beautiful. Love it.

Margaret said...

a beautiful tapestry woven here with this poem. So many lush images. … and the birds finally stop chirping when it is time to wake up (ha ha)

Björn Rudberg said...

The thing is that I can feel the smell of your words .. even if you don't talk about it.. That makes it such a feast.

Yvonne Osborne said...

"A thread in the fabric of my worry" is a great line. Makes the poem for me. Worrisome nights when all seems hopeless. Thank God for morning!

Kerry O'Connor said...

A sleepless night.. the sense of isolation is palpable in these lines.

Lolamouse said...
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