Standing beside the trail,
back against the river
which he swore whispered to him
in that voice, her voice
he could not push the button
take the picture, for the mist
settling in to shroud his vision
shaking prisms from his eyes
he marveled at the white bark
against a cerulean sky, dotted,
raven-shaped tresses adorning
a trunk he longed to climb
Leaving behind the trail,
wading into the cold rush,
which he swore whispered to him
love, love, come home
Posts
oh IG, i love this.....so beautiful and evocative and stark....reminds me of edgar lee masters' spoon river
ReplyDeleteSycamores have this same effect on me. Lovely.
ReplyDeleteHow greatly a wounded heart can animate a moment so that landscape becomes Beloved. Keep the faith, pal - Brendan
ReplyDeleteI like those plate sized leaves of the sycamores. I hope that their starkness this time of year will be replaced with buds soon,
ReplyDeleteThis makes me shiver.
ReplyDeleteDUDE. WHOA. Prisms from the eye. thats just awesome
ReplyDelete