Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Silvering (Poem)


Her seed-cluttered core
bears no more fruit

to feed what need
still hungers for,

what another's eyes
have closed to.

Hands, onionskin
-smooth, hold

themselves the mirror
to aging.

Flint-flecked hair

like a lake silvering
in moonlight.

Words that once moved
through her heart


indifferent to gestures
of good-bye

she's been whispering
daily at  twilight.

© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas


Louise Gallagher said...

Ah, you describe this place of being so beautifully and evocatively.

aprille said...

I suppose it happens to all of us. Undoubtedly hard to accept. Like silver as a verb.

Brian Miller said...

i hope that my own aging is as graceful you know...and if i talk to twilight...i hope they dont stop me...

TALON said...

There was a mystical, magical quality to this that made for a very smooth and beautiful read.

Grace said...

I like the title post and opening lines best ~

Lorna Cahall said...

So perfect. I love the development through the dried pod and onionskin up to the moonlight silvering. It is so gentle and goes deeper and deeper.

emmett wheatfall said...

Beautifully exquisite, Maureen. Its art poetically. I just love your talent for the abstract. Poet Robert Hass may love more concrete poetry, but I am a huge far of your abstract poetry.

Ruth said...

This poem glimmers with the beauty of age, though for some (like my mom with Alzheimer's) the aged one is gone from the body before she dies. You express what I felt with my mother very, very well in this beautiful poem.

kkkkaty said...

A sweet and poignant poem about aging without sadness or morbidity..just love coming through and an appreciation for her life...immortalized in your words..

S. Etole said...

seeing this as I read ...