A winding path wrought
by the rivulet which gurgled every spring
my name,
was brought to a sudden halt:
frozen in tracks
of deers,
etched in soft
pulps of undergrowth.
It was only the
lonely owl,
sitting in his silence,
who dared to call summer
with short but sorrowful
sounds of foretelling;
reflected
circles of twin moons
within his lifeless eyes.
I stepped out
in the dark night,
carrying a coat of snow: a boa
draped around my shoulders.
And then
my father
died.
The red poinsettia
at the front
gate
screamed
in its perfection.
Who, with unsteady hand,
had painted black frames
on white entrances
dripping
pain?
myra
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surely that is wrong, with views and clicks! 2002 and onl 3 views, i am not acpeting that
but anyways whethr i accept my eyes or not, with that, a good poem here, flowing into the soul
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