Sunday, November 23, 2014

Scioto Snow



Prints cross ice;
imagine a doe
coaxed to the river,
enveloped in lust
and white.

Gloved fingers,
breath exhaled
like anxious chimneys;
all of me
in your pocket.

We thrust low,
confound the cold,
unable to see beyond
the crosshatch of blue ash
and sycamore.

Wonder how
this flux can survive;
fresh unbodied rush,
metallic, more feverish
than spring.


tk/November 2014



Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth...





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14 comments:

  1. Liz Rice-SosneSun Nov 23, 12:52:00 PM

    This is so moving, so passionate! I just love it!

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  2. Kathe W.Sun Nov 23, 01:48:00 PM

    wonderfully composed- lovely and I see you have snow today also!

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  3. relSun Nov 23, 03:38:00 PM

    beneath the ice life goes on.
    nice images.

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  4. Stafford RaySun Nov 23, 05:26:00 PM

    Appropriate for what is happening in the east! I hope you are all surviving. XX

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  5. Theresa MilsteinSun Nov 23, 05:35:00 PM

    Your last two stanzas are really well done!

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  6. DickMon Nov 24, 02:51:00 AM

    Nicely done, Tess. ('Anxious chimneys' does it!)

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  7. i b aroraMon Nov 24, 03:15:00 AM

    nice poem

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  8. Silent Otto Mon Nov 24, 06:15:00 AM

    Yeah , metallica in wintrica , but still fun , if you dont freeze any bits off in the frenzy , and realise too late , they were hanging out ....

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  9. 21 WitsMon Nov 24, 11:07:00 AM

    Our lives are the better for seeing that doe, just as you've quoted it- imagined or not! Lovely mood here.

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  10. humbirdMon Nov 24, 02:42:00 PM

    Loved. Stillness of winter doubted... cool lines 'breath exhaled
    like anxious chimneys;' and 'all of me
    in your pocket.' ...this 'feverish' winter...

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  11. TruedessaMon Nov 24, 09:02:00 PM

    The opening stanza really grabbed me as I imagined that doe..

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  12. HelenTue Nov 25, 10:25:00 AM

    Your poem is lush .. and beautiful.

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  13. AnonymousTue Nov 25, 11:42:00 PM

    Your imagery is exquisite!

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  14. MarionThu Nov 27, 10:23:00 AM

    Super juicy, Tess. Thanks for this prompt...it got my creative motor running. xo

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Inject a few raisins of conversation into the tasteless dough of existence.
― O. Henry (and me)

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