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

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Buried Deep

image source
Winter's whispers gather in the oaks
Summer's secrets buried now in snow
Trees that once blazed with the fires of fall
Ash-like grey pierced with the black of crow

Limbs that sported pumpkin colored suns
Colorless as water's own reflection
Can not hearts have seasons of their own?
Love withstands the chill of disaffection

Though I try to speak of this to you
Snow lays its cold blanket over voice
Membrane between me and what I want
Hope you understand I have no choice.

submitted for Poetry Jam, Deep