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Morning Frost

  1. vitaeb profile image55
    vitaebposted 8 years ago

    Morning frost makes an orange tweed of the countryside,
    And the wind plays harpsichord with the leaves.
    The old man sits in his mottled skin, and waits,
    While faint rays of autumn stretch across the sky.

    Vaguely, he remembers twenty years back or more,
    When his boy disappeared beneath the roots of that
    Withered maple over there at the bottom of the yard. 

    Soon, soon, he mutters to his mug,
    An herbal tea of gladness warming
    The last few dendrites in his brain.

    It was so long ago, that first lava flow of pain,
    Slow to fade. But now, now friendly sadness
    Uncovers the years, a warm treasure held softly
    In his hand.

    Soon, soon, he mutters to his mug,
    Winter will come as favored dawn,
    And with any luck he'll be gone
    Down that rabbit hole of careless wonderment
    Where souls join hands and hearts sing
    The glory of night so bright
    And his son right there by his side
    Teaching him artfully stripping hide
    From the gleaming eye of wanting.

    1. AEvans profile image67
      AEvansposted 8 years ago in reply to this

      That is wonderful I love reading poetry and writing it too. What a viewpoint from a father that treasure's his son.

  2. vitaeb profile image55
    vitaebposted 8 years ago

    Thanks for you appreciation, AE.
    I've already revised this piece. It would have bee wiser for me to wait before posting the first version so precipitously. Maybe you'll take a look at version #2?

    The morning chill cloaks an orange veil over the countryside,
    And scurrying winds play harpsichord with the falling leaves.
    The old man sits in his mottled skin waiting
    While faint rays of autumn stretch across the sky.

    Vaguely, he remembers twenty years back, more or less,
    When his boy disappeared beneath the roots of that
    Withered maple over there at the bottom of the yard. 

    He remembers and stirs his mug,
    An herbal tea warming
    The last few dendrites in his brain.

    It was so long ago, that first lava flow of pain,
    So slow to fade. But now only a friendly sadness
    Uncovers his years, a warm treasure held softly
    To his breast.

    Soon, his voice echoes from the depths of his mug,
    Winter, ah yes winter.
    Soon, winter will come like a favored dawn,
    And with any luck he’ll be gone
    Down that rabbit hole of careless wonderment
    Where souls join hands and hearts sing
    The glory of night so bright
    And his son right there by his side
    Teaching him the artfulness of stripping hide
    From his gleaming eye of wanting.

    1. AEvans profile image67
      AEvansposted 8 years ago in reply to this

      This one is even better you can feel his heartache as he reminisces about his son, but finds joy by being there. These are beautiful.smile

    2. Stacie L profile image86
      Stacie Lposted 8 years ago in reply to this

      I admire those who can write prose;
      I know it's a gift.
      It gives a me a lift!

      LOL I couldn't resist.
      That's about the extent of my poetry talent.
      poets are special people ;-)

  3. knolyourself profile image60
    knolyourselfposted 8 years ago

    I agree great poem. Great use of language. Koan like finish.

  4. Ana Louis profile image82
    Ana Louisposted 8 years ago

    beautiful...moving...so much of a heart exposed.

  5. vitaeb profile image55
    vitaebposted 8 years ago

    Thank you all three: AEvans, Ana Louis, and knolyourself. I much appreciate your comments.

    1. AEvans profile image67
      AEvansposted 8 years ago in reply to this

      You are going to post others, was this something that happened to you or was a poetic thought?

  6. Paraglider profile image89
    Paragliderposted 8 years ago

    vitaeb -
    This is very good. I've been there too, but as recently as two years ago and have not yet achieved the serenity or acceptance in this piece.
    Thanks for posting.

 
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