A Winter Charm
The wind is hoarse
with words of the
north.
Mother of
columbine,
green twist of
turpentine
over the ice,
lace scratch of voles
cabling the snow,
wild-knitted life on needles of bone;
a whole that eats
parts,
a breathing of
graves,
a wide-open door
and under the
hellebore,
your gold heart.
~October 2016
(Yes, I'm back, because the words won't go away.)
Image: Lenten Rose Hellebore hybrid (Helleborus orientalis) 'Blue Metallic Lady'
via Pinterest. Fair use.
This is a little softer than your usual, though it still has a sharpness and an intimation of the temporary and uncertain nature of life. It's wonderful and also does my stony heart good to see you writing, dear BFF and bar raiser.
ReplyDeleteYay! xo
ReplyDelete1, welcome back, and B, no they won't, and iii, the 'cabling the snow' line is a metonymy for the piece as a whole: a thread linking each crisp image to the next until your surprising and gentle close. a poem to savor ~
ReplyDeleteWhat a closing.
ReplyDeleteDeath is the most fragrant and compelling flower of all--congrats on finding the bouquet after formally casketing this blog -- and finding gold inside them thar unfurled turpentine mists. So fine. So good to see you back, Hedge.
ReplyDelete