Remnant skeletons of seeding ecstasy
standing like corpses with rigor mortis,
cadavers who had given birth,
left to die and having served their purpose.
The wind carries the spirit of their creation,
not as laments, but whispers of hope,
what sleeps now will surrender to earth's womb,
returning to its origins,
to once again come to life
in the cycle of nature's echoes
where the past
returns to bless the future.
Seeing in their silence
a part the ageless mystery of grace,
how without hands of envy
they find a glory still the same,
harvest their limelight,
shining in one's soul
each time one sits and feasts
upon their precious gold.
A contest entry
- Stalk Talk - PIF Closes tomorrow morning by CarolDesjarlais.
600 points, ended September 14, 2007, 5 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Oh beautifully done. There is nothing more evocative than beautiful reminds of bounty under a harvest moon...
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Wow. Specular imagery again. So sad and so true, but it's not completely melancholic. You have complete work here, a very best of luck
-Esha
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Thank you for the wonderful comment.
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