Beneath an ice-glistened foresty canopy
Wet black tree trunks surrounded by
Burnt-yellow grassy fields
And the swans still swimming
Past November warnings.
Because I don’t know the names of
Complicated colors, I can’t tell you how I feel.
Pink-green fields in January
Sixteen deep red roses on her birthday.
Almost-men smoking sweet brown cigars
Outside in the dark winter rain.
2 comments:
By the way, this is a beautiful Poem. Quiet, mysterious, consoling,
bittersweet, lilting, everything
powerful enough we don't care
right away about narrative particulars (the title helps, adds
to interpreting the poem as well).
Yes. Birthdays are easier to write about than grief. I like what you've said in the past about not explaining poems. If I've said enough, it's enough.
Post a Comment