In the Bleak Midwinter
after Christina Rosetti
Pour leaves into a gossamer bag, the kettle boils
in the bleak midwinter
the orange-brown water steams your mug and glasses
watching snow fall in the bleak midwinter
the cinnamon scent of your mothers touch
fills your nose in the bleak midwinter
the teardrop shed at her absence joins your mug—
your mother passed this bleak midwinter
one rotation round the earth, the first and last snow falls
without her here, the coming end of the bleak midwinter
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
