“Frost is the hand that teaches the body its boundaries.” The chill reaches me before the snow. It settles into the marrow of my hands,
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzalesabout a year ago in Poets
“The wind remembers both silence and song.” A wind moves through the branches, not the chatter of autumn sparrows, but the hollow cry of spaces left behind.
“Every current dreams of the sea, even as frost binds its mouth.” The river exhales fog, a low lament, its sorrow heavy on the air:
“The heavens are a lantern, and winter trims the flame.” Above me the sky gathers its cloak, clouds knotting thick as wool,
“Even the roots know what silence foretells.” The maples whisper as their blood retreats, sap slipping into roots like secrets carried below,
Moon, I know your song rides with her— the lady on the white horse, her hair flowing like rivers of milk, her voice like silver rain.
Moon, when the shadow eats you, the air turns iron. The rivers still. Birds fall silent mid-flight, their wings struck dumb.
Moon, I see your scarred face— etched with punishment, marked with sorrow. They call you thief, breaker of Sabbath, sinner exiled to shine.
Moon, your horns call them forth— riders of storm and shadow, their hounds baying across the marrow of the hills. The earth shivers when their hooves strike the sky.
Moon of the north, I see the wolves behind you. Their howls split the branches, and even the pines tremble, casting their needles like prayers at your passing.
Supposedly – A blank slate Intentionally fashioned Purposely created 🎭 A canvas On which to paint Ideals Carry out Ideas
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Poets
I have worn so many faces that sometimes I forget which one is mine. There is the smile polished for company, bright enough to blind the question
By Alain SUPPINIabout a year ago in Poets
