The Heart of the Woods
Labels:
naquillity,
poesaics,
the heart of the woods
·
Becomes an open spigot
Where winter grows
On a sapling whose branches
Hold a broached robin.
She's watching soft-silent waves churn
Along a field's edge
As cold winds approach
She thrusts into the numbing air
Like an uncoiling arrow-
The heart of the woods.
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5 comments:
this is so lovely...a timely poem too.
this is an amazing poem. truly beautiful.
I have read and re-read this with great delight. Your precise choice of words (and metaphor) contains and frees the robin at one and the same time! Your opening line with the word 'whittled' is most arresting. Love it!
I love the whittled sky.
Happy blog anniversary! Keep going.
I love your use of descriptive words in this piece.
Excellent work.
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