Silvering
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
shimmers,
like a lake silvering
in moonlight.
Words that once moved
through her heart
sound,
un-remembered,
indifferent to gestures
of good-bye
she's been whispering
daily at twilight.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
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10 comments:
Ah, you describe this place of being so beautifully and evocatively.
I suppose it happens to all of us. Undoubtedly hard to accept. Like silver as a verb.
i hope that my own aging is as graceful you know...and if i talk to twilight...i hope they dont stop me...
There was a mystical, magical quality to this that made for a very smooth and beautiful read.
I like the title post and opening lines best ~
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.
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.
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.
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..
seeing this as I read ...
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