The rivulet, which gurgled every spring
my name
was brought to a sudden halt
freezing in the tracks
of deers
etched in the soft
pulps of undergrowth
Now it is only
the lonely owl
sitting in his Silence
who dares to call the summer
with the short but sorrowful
sound of foretelling
reflecting
circles of twin moons
heavily painted in lifeless eyes
She stepped out in the dark night
carrying the coat of snow like a boa
draped around her shoulders
and then ... my father died.
The red poinsettia
at the front
gate
screamed
in its perfection
Who with unsteady hand
has painted black frames of pain
on white entrances?
myra
Author notes
Written January 27th, 2002
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Excellently written piece!
This is an excellently written-piece, and I love it.
Damon
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Ah ... you brought me back here ...
to remember my mother, coated in snow, running across the street to call the doctor ... while I a mere child of three, sat at the lifeless body of my father ... who died of a heart attack.
Thank you, Damon, for your comment. My words are too many to contemplate, and often I need the retrospect.
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You said it so well.
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Thanks, you two, for feeling my loss.
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Fantastic! Ouch, this is painful to read, it's so wrought with emotion. Well done!
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There is such a depth of feeling behind the words in this... Very profound expression of your devastating loss.
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