The open wound was cut
deep & cloud-drinking with pain;
it’s storm-bleeding and sleet-dancing,
gaping — full of thirst — to shrouds;
to fevered fermentation of the ash;
digging graves for winter months,
That last morning,
her eyes were daggers
and her tongue’s a chainsaw
slipping icicles of silent doubt;
drops of crimson debts — unpaid.
But deep inside my pocket rests
sweetest seed for vines to bring
the bounty of her heart again;
in another spring.
Margaret challenge us at toads with details from a painting by Severin Roesen. I could not help but think of an open wound when I saw the pomegranate. November is extremely dark here, and so far we have had 1.5 hrs of sunshine. I wonder where we will end.
November 21, 2014