Pruning in Frost
Last night, without a sound,
a ghost of a world lay down on a world,
trees like dream-wrecks
coralled with increments of frost.
Found crevices
and wound and wound
the clock-spring cobwebs.
All life’s ribbon frozen mid-fling.
Oh I am
stone thumbs,
feet of glass.
Work knocks in me the winter’s nail.
I can imagine
Pain, turned heron,
could fly off slowly in a creak of wings.
And I’d be staring, like one of those
cold-holy and granite kings,
getting carved into this effigy of orchard.
From The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile
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3 comments:
Phenomenal. Her use of language is extraordinary.
Puss
Hello, August!
Nice poem!
I loved this blog.
Every fresh and refreshing poetry. Her skilful use of language is amazing. Thanks for sharing.
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