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