Saturday, August 14, 2010


I etch my painting
 on frosted panes
that I may more than see
the icy fingers of winter

Sol invites play
as slivers of silver fall away
The fine brush strokes
feathery veins
concealing your fine
grey strands
  your weathered face
    your hidden sorrows

I want to return
to your precious womb
    to start again
    to rock you
inside of me
    to take flight but
your spirit
 slips away tranforming
icy profusion into bone
copyright: Dianne Tchir August 14,2010


  1. A beautiful poem Dianne. I like the way you yranspose nature into a thought and feeling, showing how everything is interconnected and living. Love the second stanza and the last made me think of the Earth Mother.

  2. I love the painting imagery, especially the phrase "fine grey strands," which makes me think of the bristles of the paintbrush.