The frost hasn't finished
with the kill. There's time,
still — to feel the ground
give while you silver full
into too-late middle years,
your nights, murmurous
discontents, startling
their way into your deepening
sleep. Claim what is restless
to last, even as your sight
like a snow cloud thickens,
and your breath, exhausting
its missed but heart-paced
rhythms, catches on these,
my brokered words of love.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
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This poem made its first appearance, in March 2013, at John D. Blase's the beautiful due. It also has been published at VerseWrights.
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14 comments:
Love how "the kill" is chilling, but then is softened by the hope of the rhymed "still."
I'm past those "too-late middle years," but I identify with the whole poem… especially "your nights, murmurous/ discontents."
Love your use of metaphors in this ... the kill, the frost... and then into aging... very nice writing Maureen..
Maureen this is beautiful, thank you.
Maureen this is beautiful, thank you.
Powerful opening line, then softens. Perfect title, and really love this:
"your breath, exhausting
its missed but heart-paced
rhythms, catches on these"
thinking about the crush of fast pace today
longing for the still, for myself, for you, for us all...
"your nights, murmurous
discontents, startling
their way into your deepening
sleep."
I know this feeling all too well, especially when it comes to love. Beautifully expressed poem.
Beautifully crafted. This part is my favorite: "even as your sight
like a snow cloud thickens,
and your breath, exhausting
its missed but heart-paced
rhythms,"
"and your breath, exhausting" Sweet line, playful interpretations on the word exhausting, a pun, a double meaning, something to ponder -- hallmark of a good line.
Love as it matures and silvers...beautifully written.
Beautiful poem - the line breaks work especially well for me - they give me pause, time to think, room to breathe...
Beautifully penned.
Such a strong use of imagery and rhythm. Loved it.
"Claim what is restless / to last" - that, I think, is what must be brokered in the advancing boreal of age. Love here is the poem, the most difficult of makings when everything becomes more difficult. Fine stuff - Brendan
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