kneeling
in a winter coat
I tend her garden
leaving each stone
where she placed it
Andrew Hide
05~01~05
Author notes
Written January 5th, 2005
In a list
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1 - 10 of 10
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Another?
Those beautiful flowers planted will continue to grow and blossom under your tender guidance.
I am almost certain what I will find when I see it is a tanka.
Susan -
This was beautiful. I am moved by this, so isn't that the highest praise we can give each other. I wish my stuff had the simple beauty of this.
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Excellent stuff. You have the gift of capturing the essence of the form like no other.
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I know little about tanka, but I recognize the depth of this one. You draw out those deeply held emotions that beautiful things always call out. Don is right: this deserves to be in the book you should be reading galleys on right now. My best, and thanks. Stu
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This is a strong tanka. Excellently crafted where each line is a must... or it would collapse. This is rich in content and mood.... evoking a zillion different feelings and images within my mind. This is one of my favs of yours friend.... belongs in your book.... you know... the one you should be publishing right about now....
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Maybe that is what true love is, keeping things the way she would want them to be.
A beautiful poem, Andrew.
Love, Hugs and Laughter to you...
Pat -
have to agree with alll the comments above i particularly like the image of kneeling on it own in L1 the conjurs the idea of a silent prayer and adds to the sense of being alone..very poignant piece
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excellent
This is a wonderful poem. I love the idea of tending and yet not changing. Beautiful image, beautiful thought.
thanks,
John -
This is so quietly and gently evocative, implying a mixture of feelings. The subtle reverence is beautifully portrayed.
Wonderful piece, Andrew!
~G
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When my grandmother died we left all of her things just as she had left them. Her glasses stayed beside the bed where she kept them. Her perfumes, jewelry, clothes - etc were all left where she had touched them last. As if leaving her items as she had left them would convince her to come back to us somehow. As if touching her things would disturb the dead. I used to sneak into her room and spray her perfume into the air and if I closed my eyes I could almost make myself believe she had returned. Funny how the sense of smell is the strongest sense. But its true. Your words made me think of her, and my grandfather but mainly just her, because I wasn't prepared for her death. That is the worst kind.
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