Narrative

just a poem

traces of snow, black earth, roots

of devils hands that grasp at frost,

walls stenciled with cold growth;

a far dog coughs open a winter sunday

but we are scared to peek under the crust,

so we tick and turn, waiting for

a dark better than this, come soon...

the light of your eyes has become 

pale and diffuse, here and longer in ice

Reviews

[Einstein Noodle]

oh the death of winters grasp ..so glad i ran away from frigid "up north" ..i felt myself in a coffin ... icy death icy winter icy frost ..brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr chills bone and souls alike says i
E.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this reminds me of getting old...snow hair, dark roots trying to hang on, hold the tree tight. Our cold growth ---getting each day towards that winter pasture...and what comes next? as the eyes grow dim?
thoughtful write.
j.