Dust motes drift lazily before the small window
grimy with accumulated years of neglect.
A shaft of pale sun hunts a crack in the pane,
illuminating a wooden table strewn with herbs
bunched, bottled, dried and crushed.
Have they been forgotten too,
only to await the inevitable darkness
that will once again claim the cellar's space?
Please tell me what you think [Reward: double points]
Comments
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Great stuff!
Very interesting thoughts, well said, maybe the 3rd line could be shortened, softened... a pale sunray searches for
a way in (to the pane)
the question, I would not pose, but tell the reader: bunched, bottled dried and crushed,
forgotten to await the inevitable dark, (dusk), (night)
which will again claim the cellar's space.
Of course, it's your choice, but it is better in poetry not to ask but to deliver facts, in this case, hard facts... bunched.... forgotten, left in the dark...
gives a more brutal impression of the herb's fate, a more vivid picture.
Great imaginary, well done, can't wait to read your next piece.
Good luck!
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Wow. This is very good. I love the detailed imagery. The despair of having been forgotten lingers like the dust, almost choking out the sun. Very nice.
Smooth flow as the words go from line to line. Love it.
. Rewarded 4
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I have a New England Cellar and therefore decided to click to read.
I stopped drying my herbs for this very reason. I forgot about them. Now I only cut what I can use and let the rest go to flower and seed.
Thanks for the read.
Lisa -
Wow this has such a major hint of dispair.
Great imagery
Wonderful Job
Delila
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