On the thin edge of November
smoky air flirts with freezing and the stunned birds
seem to lean forward on the precipice of a warning cry.
Last night I dreamed of you,
my chest a redding leaf poised at a point of immobility.
A wind came up.
Windows grayed.
I rose, denying ghosts.
(Even yours.)
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This is stark in its truths, but also embellished with such delicate, almost Baroque curves and details, the birds on the precipice of a cry, the redding leaf-- just exquisite and almost eerily delineated with the off-light of a waning sun. I couldn't have asked for a more fitting 55 for this edgy season of cold comfort indeed. Thanks for playing and bringing your best, Shay. The kickass weekend is optional, but always recommended.
ReplyDeleteStunning, the thin edge of November.
ReplyDeleteThe ghosts of our past that once held our heart are always the ones to fear. Powerful poetry my friend!
ReplyDeleteI can see those birds leaning forward. "Denying ghosts, even yours." This is how we survive the heartbreaks. That...and dogs. Smiles. A wonderful from-the-heart poem.
ReplyDeleteYour poem is so beautiful. I gave a deep sigh when I read this line "my chest a redding leaf poised at a point of immobility" Another one I wish I had written.
ReplyDeleteYes, that edge really thins out. Beautifully said (or typed). I'm with you, denying the ghosts. Hope it goes better for you.
ReplyDelete