Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer
Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around.
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…
Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey
There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~
(for Catie's: Re-write contest..)
the shortest day
but longest night
within a memory
of my four seasons
Every cell in my body
Your amorous glance
Your ardent touch
Your effervescent kiss
and even your last whisper
a careless whisper
which sickened my thought
and pained me with grief
Every breath from my lungs
remembers your absence
How can I forget it
I live with it
I die inside of it
It surrounds my existence
You -Solstizio D'Inverno
Where is your promise
of new beginning
Where is the light
of what was pure
I know you!
I know you
enough to know
You still feel me in your bones
I know you!
I know you
enough to know
You bury me in your soul
Then you dig..
You dig crazily
beneath poured dusk
which fills the hourglass
beyond your veins
You dig deep
to find me
You find me
You hold me
I know you!
I know you
enough to know
You hold me
to your heart
I know you!
I know you
enough to know
Your love travels
as far as the stars
as distant as God
and undiscovered orbits
But was that
For how long
should this candle shine
How dim its glow now
Low is the voice
which calls the sun
to rebirths prisms
Weak are the footprints
which mark our path
on moonlit snow
I should stop walking
I should stop calling
The sun sank
in the stillness
of a crimson horizon
In the solitude
of the tide
never to dawn
in these eyes again
my coldest verse
My longest night
I wake to a world of tin,
white and pewter light enters my soul,
all is quiet, muffled, wrapped in cloud.
And the trees are no longer proud;
they are brown withered old women,
I have never seen them so before.
This season must be sacred
that it can drain the world of life.
How long can my heart survive this great freeze?
The sky, too, seems to be dying -
it is still and completely colourless.
Dolorous bells chime; they carry on the wind.
The world shivers;
the gutters run like rivers,
carrying, in their ice-curdled currents,
sweet wrappers, crisp packets,
and the mouldy stench of dead bracken.
There is an unfamiliar harshness in the air.
Raping the hill the wind's chill
gusts into my face, seizing my breath.
A flock of breathless leaves
assaults my body,
swarming like bees.
My five once-proud apple trees
are bunched and gnarled to five brown fists.
The brittle grasses rattle
and the hawthorn
proudly exhibits its prickles.
An orange spark unlooses itself
from a pile of burning wood
and ignites the colourless sky.
The flint light stares me down:
the icy iris of winter's eye.
Grey sky, grey river, two grey, drizzled walkers.
The last roses are over
and gardens are in their death throes.
The white light of winter dazzles me,
the wind gags me with my wild blown hair.
on the needly boughs of the spruce.
I have your telephone number in my drawer.
It is the old dead bit of mummy cloth
of an old dead relationship,
coffined in its coldness.
There is a nobility to all this, an impressiveness,
in the face of it I am beaten small.
This I have to beckon me through the winter:
mud in ruts, and the frozen earth of March.
Meanwhile, amorphous clouds pass over
I Am Winter
I am cold – not heartless,
nor do I wish any harm.
This is just the way it is,
my gaze - a shivering chill,
my kiss - a frosty sting,
my breath - a numbing touch.
I come alone – uninvited
to lull to sleep the cycles
that need rejuvenation.
I am angry – for you fear me -
shut your doors, lock your windows,
deny me but your harshest looks
wrap yourselves in layers
lest we touch.
I am saddened – thus I whine
dancing around your houses
bending low the cowering trees
weeping sub zero tears
that never fall.
I am Winter –
and when my time is done
you will rejoice that I have gone
never thanking me –
for the beauty that awaits.
John G. Lawless
Submitted to PD’s – Winter Poems #1 – Poetry Contest
autumn is here.
of the rain
and blossoms spring.
the snow shapes
the crisp cold
ices the wintertide.
the sand sculptures
a childhood summer past.
the seasonal airs
stimulates the senses
and the memories they carry.
in the glee,
in the hopes and dreams,
in the human spirit,
lives the miracle of life.
voices in every pitch
deep and resounding,
of echoes and whispers – uncut.
Any Old Poem Will Do - Contest
For Skat A
Entered: August 29 2014
With my soul at peace and my thoughts at rest,
standing in this winter wilderness,
I whisper words of heartfelt bliss.
Come with me and walk this path.
Together we tread against the freeze,
and find the warmth of tender grasp.
My devoted being shall forever be,
a place of strength against chilled winds,
a brilliant light only you have seen.
Our lives have met in this quiet space.
Let sky meet land and rivers merge.
Forever, harmony I long to taste.
We have summoned light from darkest days.
Heat returns to melt still ice.
Each day length now brings stronger rays.
The deepest snows cannot hide the facts.
Beneath these layers life holds fast.
Newfound joys spring from bleakest past.
Let's rebuild life from broken dreams,
Where life restarts with each new spring,
the snows will melt to feed fresh streams.
Like this land, my passion runs free.
Walls have come down with earnest words.
My unblinded eyes now see.
I ask for your hand without ounce of gold,
or shiny stones dug from filthy earth.
My eternal love cannot be bought or sold.
Under peaks reborn of volcanic scars,
In night's serene and starkest silence,
I pledge love to outlast the multitude of stars.
Solitude I turn from on this ride.
Today and tomorrow let's walk in stride.
Promise to be my utopian bride.
I stumbled through twisted tinsel streets,
oblivious to ice and seasonal shouts,
muffled by snow-silence; a mannequin moving through mists,
quietly fragmenting behind frost-fragile walls of frailty.
Bleak winds blew open the hinges of my hypothermic heart,
wailed a wintry lament only I could hear -
ice-shrapnel words blown to lodge in my ear: you've lost the baby.
Those four words were spiked icicles, glacier-cold;
hope disintegrated like snow powder as they pierced me.
Streets seemed pregnant with the plumpness of babies,
their waxen doll faces bluish and cold,
their pink gummy mouths demanding, demanding.
And my breasts were frozen roses,
too iced to feed their tiny need.
Snowflakes trembled like butterflies blown from the Arctic,
or the feeble flutter of a failing foetal heartbeat.
The town became a barren expanse of white:
cold crystals drifting, acres of snow-diamond light.
But shops shimmered with heat, bulged bauble-gaudy
with the fatness of consumerism.
And I was reed-slender, my womb a hollowed-out tomb.
Everywhere, babies bloomed, precious as poinsettias,
mouths like petals, squirmy with hungry red cries and squalls,
echoing, echoing, as I squinted into the white squall.
And a ribbon of milk unloosed itself silently,
sudden and scalding, like a fountaining of tears;
a lacework trace soaking my shimmer thread sweater dress;
a single, small, white thaw as I silently unravelled,
stumbling through streets that spooled like silver yarn -
for 'Fragment' contest
Somber is the color of the day...
The window glass, enhanced by dew, this dreary afternoon
Prisms of light from a pewter lamp, reflect upon on the fog
A rainbow splashed against the wall forms mirrors of my mood
While quietly, I sit, and ponder it all, my pen is close, my chin in hand
Pinned back, my strands, a sweater, old, is pulled around my chill
woven in colors, of various yarns, as varied as thoughts that take me away
My mind is lost in a wakened dream
While trees are tossed about in winter wind,
and leaves lay dead beneath the snowy mounds
a fire glows, and a storm now keeps me bound
One shard of light from a neighbor's home
across the hill, a distant mile
The dimness in a room from winter sighs...
then something sparks a word ...a line, .. a verse, ... a lullaby ...
The day is sadder than the words I had found...
so somber is the day that keeps me bound
I hide away this moment....a cup of tea, a Golden Lab for company..
One peek beyond the distant hill, a touch of sun
A glimpse of mountain, pastures deep, my dog that sleeps...
A momentary chance to free my soul
In just a brief, but deep departure from the ordinary...
I explore my thoughts, search my heart, wonder what this day will bring...
I watched old memories, long kept cold, ...unfold as if a dream
Unsort, relive, those worlds untold....
Exploring new words, I now have found
Stumbling through my mind, unintended
Watching the words tumble as if unattended...
Unfolding, exploding, and falling in chaos
Paying no mind to the reader's conception
Cleansing, pleasing, as my soul fits the pieces...
Beneficial.... to the reader...will it matter? Who knows?...
But a satisfying journey traveled and found
by myself....and for myself, ....as the one who's creating...
Looking out from blurry windows...a dark day continues ...
on a somber colored day, that kept me bound.....
do not forget among the loss of flowers
beneath your death of snow
do not forget that bird of sun
the trees gave down there bending branches
to light the grass where love made little flowers
do not forget my love
the lights most fragile gift the sky
bowed low to give a blushing praise
to the joyful dance of star and moon
do not forget the nesting hope of spring
the freed sparrow of your fingers
the silence more deep then words
remember me in the summerless field
the slender moment bereft of rain
before life and you became
My breath becomes visible when I exhale
into the chill of the still, winter air
but, I do not mind the cold.
I hear nothing, but the solemn sound of silence
as I stand in the middle of nowhere, with no one,
looking straight up into a gray sky
and seeing nothing, but a million snowflakes coming toward me.
Tumbling, dancing, drifting, and finding their way to the earth.
No, they are not just frozen raindrops.
Each one is a miniature ice sculpture
intricately carved by the hand of a master artist.
Can it be, within the billions of snowflakes that fall each year,
that no two are ever alike?
While I do not have the answer, I enjoy pondering the question.
I stand perfectly still, as if frozen in time,
as the snow falls down, and sticks onto my hair,
instantly aging me as my golden-brown locks turn white.
Yet, I feel much younger than I am.
I feel like I am inside a snow-globe that has just been shaken.
I can feel them gently landing on my face,
these delicate snowflakes tickle me
as they get caught by my eyelashes.
I just close my eyes and smile.
A harsh wind bites.
The signals are there for those
who understand; those who can
read the fauna and flora like a map.
Navigating through the forest…
Acorns are being stored under a
Shards of light pierce through
Evergreens wrap themselves
in a nice warm coat.
The snow arrives on iridescent
wings, stretching it’s arms and
cloaking all in sight.
A silence creeps in, it’s heart
slows to a single beat of a
dying honey bee…
When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers,
like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing
sluggish songs of longing and loneliness...
Over time the crows pile on,
my-my how they live to pile on,
like bones of long ago loves...
leaving only an avalanched refrain....
but the soul is still flowing and howling
like an early winter stream
nobody dares to cross
those icy blue eyed thinning veins.
but there is a flock of warmth
in every winter heart,
buried beneath dead songs of crow and time,
they just need a pinch of flint and pine
to release the warmth from the glowing...
my-my how they beat to release rose budded songs
from a million springs ago.
Rarest of beauty is she the ice fawn,
Grazing within the ice meadows in crystal
Fields of frozen cloves, as the star lights
Flicker in brilliance shinning, all about her.
A shy creature of gentleness, made of ice
And snow, unique amongst the polarized canvas,
Alone in perfections glittering diamond dust,
Of winter’s mystical enchantments.
Drinking from the pools of the moon,
Warmed by the twinkling shades of the rays,
Casted in the Aurora Borealis of the northern
Pastures, beyond mankind’s encroachment.
Creations gathering of angel tears shed
In tender moments of truest grace, was
She this miracle thus was so made,
The ice fawn.
Chamber lights living Kalightoscope, a prism of
Dear shine, walking in splendors white ice.
A mystical being of opulence’s elegance, splashed
By the divine plate array, and brushed by the wings
Of the ethereal angelic.
A sparkling gem, a jewel of winter, with the
Soft brown eyes of clarity, behold the ice fawn
In all her glittering glory, walking in freedoms
Sacred Valley of the human imagination.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The season's first snow
just a dusting but enough
The kids and dogs
delighting in the
new found flakes,
not too cold yet.
On the other side
of the world
the day's first drones
The kids and dogs.
but no one
not too cold yet.
Revised 9/8/2014; first written soon after 11/09/2001. I changed a specific county to 'the other side of the world' and 'missiles' to 'drones', but not much else has changed.
I like to sit and watch the snowfall as I’ve done in my memory.
Falling upon the deck, falling where my toys used to be.
Where as a child I’d sit and watch the woods turn from brown to white.
I had so many dreams back then, as I do here tonight.
The smell of ginger bread cookies and cider filled the house.
Where there was good cheer for all including the visiting mouse.
The sweet taste of maple syrup from Teatown I recall.
As the snow fell on the ice where we used to slip, slide and fall.
Upon ice clear - frozen window pane
A single breath remains, captured warm - then dissipates
Beyond - whipped by season's song
Somehow, beauty mixes with fury
Living white smoke snakes across grassy fields
Powder dunes shift aimlessly
Seeking their space to claim
No sign of life...
The landscape foreign - engulfed as prisoner
Inside I feel much the same
But..now beside fire's glow
When winter has had her say...this sand will pass
....give way to spring's soft plush green grass
© Donna Jones
Fall tumbles relentlessly on our door steps
young winter birds inducing provoking sounds scamper in trees
Watching winter crawling slowly under our feet.
The night rain wet the ground with sadness
washing away the environmental stench
purging the atmosphere of its infectious dew
And I could absorb fresh air in my lungs again.
I fell into a deep sleep shortly after nine but woke up
by my next door neighbor bustling activities.
Nice showers clean fresh air is the perfect night to
be drenched with sleep but instead I was on my knees.
An unknown burden overshadowed me, disturbing my spirit
raising my curiosity, causing me to ponder over unknown mysteries
unexplainable matters that doesn't concern me, yet they troubled me.
I soaked myself in prayer seeking for a plausible answer
And after praying I fell asleep again; a sleep that
I thought would be peaceful but here I am again
on an unannounced journey to the Far East.
I mysteriously found myself on a university campus in the Far East,
no paint, no color, everywhere was deserted, no one was around
except for dry leaves spreading out on the troubled ground
and dull trees astoundingly lingering in the autumn breeze.
I walked propitiously through the front door along a bare corridor
in search of a toilet to ease my body pressure.
A desolated corridor whose hope seemed to be diminished with the passing of time
a million feet must have trodden upon it, feet in search of freedom ,
feet looking for peace, proud feet, dirty feet, bloody feet, stubborn feet.
Feet looking for revenge and feet marching to the destiny of doom.
I moved anxiously from door to door but every door that I opened I saw
Asian toilet embedded deeply in the ground and clean water flooding all around.
I opened another door and found a western bath filled with clean water
I kept walking along the corridor but all the Asian toilets were flood with water.
At the end of the corridor I found one that was completely dry but there was no toilet inside except for PVC pipe fittings planted firmly in the ground.
I tread along the opposite side of the hallway still searching for a toilet
but only rooms whose doors were removed and leaning helplessly
in front of them occupy the other side of the stricken corridor.
I anxiously left the building and a slim young man in his early twenties
wearing shaded glasses ran behind a reception area outside the campus ground
and pretended as if he was at work, but that was only a deception.
As I walked passed him he tried to reached out to me
He complained about someone who has treated him badly
and pointed to a friend who was instrumental in turning his life around.
A sizable crowd gather around him as he illustrates his painful story.
He and his friend took me to the other side of the campus where
a larger crowd of young people had gathered for a wedding
some were sitting under large beach umbrellas
While others congregate in groups all over the campus grounds.
I walked upon a platform where the wedding ceremony
was about to take place but daylight suddenly exploded in my face.
©2014 Christine Phillips
I can feel him in my bones.
A chill has descended on my world
I can see him in the breath that forms a mist before me.
I can hear him in the wind that whispers to the pines.
Barren trees flex their skeletal fingers
While wasted leaves plummet to their death.
His presence is betrayed.
I am not alarmed.
I have met him before.
We oft have locked in struggles between seasons,
I have fended off his frozen arrows
Beaten back his snow filled storms.
Broken his sword of ice and forced surrender.
I have left his broken spirit
To wither in the pristine fields of spring.
Knowing that his soul has not been vanquished.
On the morrow, the ghost of winter will return
And I, like a worthy foe,
Will wait to challenge him again
Why do I love thee?
You! With a heart made of ice
Hiding beneath the face of an angel
Pure and white
Crying those frosty tears
In and effort to convince me
You didn't kill your rival
‘The beautiful vibrant Autumn’
Can I not see – you ask?
Surely it was suicide
Everyone saw her leap to her death
But! I know it was you
For I still see
Your tell-tale frost on her breast
Left When you held her in
A kiss of death
So why! Do I still love thee?
You! With a heart of ice
Is it because I know
You were consumed with jealousy
Wanting to be more beautiful
Than she could ever be
In the hopes of pleasing me?
A thrill – a chill runs up my spine
Autumn quickly fading from my mind
As I look at you
A glistening jewel
That simply takes my breath away
SECOND PLACE: Let it snow contest
Wolf And Owl Take Shape
Smoke and red cinders rise together in retrograde simplicity
On counter rotation, winds sing through birch and oak
Marbled moon remains sour yellow through the ecliptic edge
Cryptic night, where owl and wolf find warmth and cover
Nestled in the coarse blanket warn by Tabitha, the young one
Her tribe sleeps through winter
She holds them in her mystic spell, mild heart and smile
They breathe cold mist together in history hallows
Unfolding cold reveals their open eyes
Reaching out into the distance as wolf howls
Unknown mysteries of life feel their kinship
Heaven opens up to them crisp on the fire light
Wolf moves his wool but only slightly in a twitch
Owl takes flight, returns alarmed
Back to the blanket and young girls arms
It rests with comfort feathers by her heart
Wolf and owl take shape, Tabitha smiles
They all take one long last breath and hold it in
Wait till spring to release it again below the mystic stars
10/17/14 Free Verse, Prose Poetry, haibun – Poetry Contest
through lacy curtains
that night has sewn
upon my window
that lead to you
the stars weave themselves
between the clouds
of winter's loom
a cold wind howls
beneath the unseen moon
a mother's lullaby
i feel the hands of time
from the edge of night
i sit alone
beneath the shadows
as my footsteps
fade to white
The snow is coming down here hard.
The ground is thick with white.
The air is cold and the wind is blowing hard.
The pond is frozen the ducks are a party.
Winter comes and I am warm.
The fire is going and the eggnog is good. With a touch of booze.
Cat is asleep all in a ball. The game has gone in to over time what a joy.
Winter is here and I don't care I'm warm and nothing can change that.
Of beauty untold
The glacial summer.
By painful slumber.
Eyes of silence,
Cold lips of fury.
Auspice of death
The twisted tongue
The vile plunging
Of raging sleep
Of sweet revenge.
The immortal with life
As it closed its eyes
Shallow edged with twigs, and sodden leaves
The odors of the earth, green moss and peat
The roots of quiet trees and rotting logs
The crumbling bank where cattails wash their feet
Where tiny minnows dart with lightning speed
Among the roots where wild ducks come to feed
The very core and essence of the earth
Born of melted snow, and sleet and rain
Of birds who roost amid the tree tops high
And breathe the wholesome fragrance of the sky
Trees that sway and swoon along the bank
Shedding leaves of amber, rust and gold
Like ashes left from burning autumn dreams
To listen, standing guard on either flank
O'er twig and stone, with watchful eyes so keen
While shading coves where angler poles have been
Across it's face, a restless ripple seen
Where tangled grass and weeping willows lean
Upon the shores where struggles soon will cease
This place to spend in nature's splendid peace
it 's snowed very hard for three days now
my car is buried deep
the power is out, no tv at all
for a few more days, they say
firewood is piled high on the porch
at least I have some heat
I can warm canned food upon the fire
and jelly sandwiches can't be beat
what am I to do, I say
surely boredom will set in
with candles bright, I light up the room
and resign myself to doom
I look around and see my books
I used to read a lot
maybe there is something there
to help me pass the time
Hemingway and Steinbeck too
they catch my eyes so quick
Farewell to Arms and Grapes of Wrath
look promising at best
the Italian front in world war 1
a love so strong I weep
why have I not read this before
it's been on the shelf to keep
the plight of the poor migrants life
as they travel from place to place
my parents talked of such times before
when no one had enough to eat
I see more books before my eyes
Dickens, Defoe and Swift
I guess I will give them a try
and see what wonder lie
the day goes fast, the fire is warm
I am in another world
maybe the snow will never stop
and leave me alone to read
beneath skies of topaz
infinite in depth and clarity
the clouds had fallen...
a soft white cushion
just for us
we lay back
and made snow angels
**for Nikko's 29 words contest
30 words in total, 29 unique words. 'and' is repeated once.
Winter, a sad season, cold, foggy,
but it makes you think.
It makes you think of the past,
the present, the furture.
The best moment to think.....
is during the winter and when
you see that light out of the window.
It's the sun.....
a ray of hope.
That brings more questions
then a mind could answer.
Winter let's us hold our breath,
and pause just inside the door,
we spend more time at window frame
watching the snowflakes fall.
The slumber of trees and cars
softens the noise on our ears,
we slow, inhale, exhale, and wonder
how every snowflake is formed.
The painted days of softened hues
blues on grays and faded yellows
are an artist's muse and a friendly cue
to wait for the coming of spring.
Every hurried step may lead to a fall,
every hurried kiss may lead to goodbye
every hurried minute forfeits the surprise
of crow squawking or coyote sniffing
at the base of your door and the base
of mind where questions need research
and answers are hard to find
and death and forever, wait like hunger
to leads us elsewhere, lead us forever
into the embrace of new, will we survive?
In the midst of vacant hours, echoes of expressions on opposite ends
are something of the same. Ruminating on questions; questions about
thy and questions about thou intertwined
with the then and the now. Thoughts
prelude to other thoughts of
thoughts emerging to
of us; is thy
to shed the
events upon the
from a dream out of a
dream to this dream only of us?
A coherent argument it is, that the
memories back on yesterday brought us
here today...But, when thy and thou bodies
meet and descend upon each accreting to the singular; occupancy
quickly overcomes vacancy leading the thoughts of many thoughts effaced.
(Sigh)...Thy and Thou love bolsters all the more today than back on yesterday.
"As a boy, I believed her to be indestructible....
....then there came a day when my Mother felt so light and frail.
This moment helped me to become a man."
Admiring the frost blossoming
in-between the antique window panes,
for just as snowflakes,
no two blossoms of frost are identical --
A fractalized, crystalline collage
of kaleidoscopic pyramids,
moving in and out of this frozen web
which catches sunlight as prey,
instead of ghastly house flies.
The new shoots of an indoor spider plant
add a whole new level of nature's artistry
by casting shadows of spiders
into the ever-growing icy web.
The play of shadow and light,
invokes a plethora of memories,
including the time when only her eyes
could be seen through breaks in the frosted panes.
Separated from the other features of her face,
they had taken on a whole new meaning altogether.
She wasn't as invincible as formerly believed,
wondering if life had something more to offer;
if she had the strength to make the right choices.
Exactly like a cold winter's day,
filled with so many depictions and details
of chilly death and crisp, brittle branches
swaying in the biting wind and frozen landscape -
all of the time knowing
how power and renewal lurks beneath the surface.
One simply needed the strength to wait it out.
And just as this frost growing
in-between the window panes will melt,
Mother's struggles had also melted away
into a warmer pond filled with lotus flowers and koi,
relishing in the golden years,
possibly wondering if her son still remembered
the unguarded glance shared so many years before.
Her son had been on the outside looking in,
and now, for this frozen moment in time,
he is on the inside, looking out.
Chris D. Aechtner All Rights Reserved
*An older post that has already been entered into a past contest.
Constance's 'Mother' contest