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Click hereThe white of a newborn snow’s an illusion;
winter’s true color’s the dead gray of smoke,
in ominous plumes over black ice on highways,
of cigarette nights spent in longing’s cold bed.
The pale white of winter’s the color of absence;
a bone white square on an empty gray wall,
a diary’s page on her desk by my window,
the white of her lips where red kisses once played.
The year’s longest night heralds winter’s arrival;
the sun flees in tears from her frost-covered grave,
the moon veils its sorrow in clouds thick as woodsmoke,
as red embers fade to the still gray of ashes
and snow palls the earth in a shroud of white linen
and turns hearts to marble, cold-blooded as thieves.
... with the colors of the mind. Extraordinary! Thank you. ~Imp
Mutt, this poem reads just beautifully. You have definitely managed to capture winter in a bottle for all to marvel at. Great phrasing, great meter - just great!
I read this and it felt like having a huge bowl of stew. The poem went down easily and unpretentiously with each reading more warming and more satisfying, pushing away any mental disrtactions and filling me up with the perceptions of this poem. I've yet to be not only a solid form poet or a good analyst of poetry. I just know what I like.
I liked this.
It's curious to me to consider how much public funding was wasted on getting the anonymous commenter to the point he could read... or, then again, maybe he had to have it read to him... yes, that's the problem, his nanny gave it a poor reading...
I commented on this, but it seems to have vanished.
This is the best poem of the year. I love it more each time I read it. Pristine quality. Unbelievable imagery. I have poet's envy-thanks a lot!