The hollow cheeks of winter scantily cover
the skeletal lantern jaw of spring; bones
bleached white by receding frost are free
to begin their stiff rattle for warmth
and to generate the spirits who come armed
with bare bodkins. Spindled fingers, barer
than the twigs, mesmerise waves of air;
cajoling it, shaping it –
sieving from it whiter ghosts whose jangling,
laden necklaces jump up and down
to distract nature while they attempt to mix
together taboos with pestle and mortar
made from the wood of hardy grapevines –
its pounding fists crush green snakes with albino
to sedate her lust for colourful concoctions.
Meanwhile, the elixir created for the belly
of spring is fed intravenously – nature’s essential
essence and innate disposition doesn’t allow
for winter’s voodoo to dance past its time to rest
and it calls sap to rise, but not before
veins of ochre pump the hesitant glimmers
of warm sun to feed feathers on new growth –
the fair down worn by earthy women – dancing
to death storms under foot – mulching in croaking
remnants of damp and decomposing cloth.
The gaseous canary sings louder, happily shifting
its weight until coldness is gone
and its old clothes are discarded for new –
they are tossed into the fire; smells
from warmed bones meet a sky heavy
with murmuring, and amber sparks
hanging from its underbelly cling like
new born kittens from snagged cotton
waiting for a cushion – as time waits for new flesh
to stick to spring’s ribs. And, like the certainty
of kisses, sweet and plenty, winter’s stuff
will not endure the warm rains of its graven image
burning in effigy –
springtime’s triumphant rebirth
is the flame of winter falling as golden daffodils.
*Title partially nicked from King Lear.
You’re my favorite.
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Thank you, Kindra.
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You’re welcome, lovely Lady 🙂
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You have talent that has been well-honed.
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Thank you kindly, Rose.
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The hollow cheeks of winter scantily cover
the skeletal lantern jaw of spring; bones
bleached white by receding frost are free
to begin their stiff rattle for warmth
and to generate the spirits who come armed
with bare bodkins. – What a fantastic opening, so vivid.
And you always manage to keep the intensity and detailing going, like kittens seperated from cotton for example.
Great writing Anita, you amaze me once more ☺
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Thank you very much.
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Every winter at the beginning, I look at spring and it’s so far away….but your poem reminds us to just watch the seasons turn, and let them be. This is a beautiful and expressive poem.
“springtime’s triumphant re birth
is the flame of winter falling as golden daffodils.
yes…..exactly.
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Thank you for reading, and yes it seems never to get here but we blink. I mean it will soon be Christmas again. And I am not planted yet..thanks for htose thoughts..
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Oddly, I am working on a multi-verse Haiku about the end of summer and falls eminent arrival. Which I will miss this year….:) But I live in a place renowned for spectacular autumn and I’ll miss it.
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Sounds interesting but ah, well, think of sun and pink flamingos or peacocks and alcoholic cold tea…the grass will be greener and maybe the fall lol. Ok I am tired. But with pictures and memories and writing you can always re create…and the grass will be greener …keep thinking that.
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Very descriptive. I love most the last two lines. 😊
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Thank you for reading, Imelda and I am glad you enjoyed it.
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so loverly! 🙂
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Thank you, Kate.
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Entrancing imagery thread throughout… and I learned a new word, too. 🙂 Nicely done!
Now I’ll go back and read it again.
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Thank you, pet.
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