Golden Lady

Woods edit3

In golden splendor do you sit
among the woods
surrounding your grave.
Romantics have sung
finer songs than I
about the state of your repose
in the autumnal glow.

 

I walk your path quietly,Woods edit4
hoping to see you barefoot
and tiny behind every tree.
I whisper your poems
like a conjurer,
hoping to lure your ghost
to walk with me.

 

 

But you stay quiet in your bower
and leave me to my solitude,Woods edit5
only dropping a polished acorn
onto the path like a consolation
for your missed company;
a sun-warmed promise
of next year’s spring.

~JL©2015

 

 

The quietest breeze

“How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers
The buck in the snow.”

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

The quietest breeze
was caressing my face,
trying to lovingly erase
sudden tears from my warm,
sodden skin.

His voice was echoing
your words into the wind.

The wounded buck,
dead seventy-plus years
in winters snow,
overlay the idyllic green pasture;
his blood stained my sight.

Your words were shattering
my heart on the hill.

There was a breach in time
surrounding the hemlocks,
and grey rain clouds carried me
back into your world
with my own fractured pain.

I was walking through poetry
into your vision.

Too soon the skies opened,
and the waking dream
was broken
by the mists of rain falling
and the knowledge of the hour.

And your words will ever find me
haunting your gardens at twilight.

~JL©2015

Written after visiting Steepletop, the final home of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

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