Sunday, April 12, 2015

Seasons

Where I come from
trees don't sleep;
they don't burn
with all the ache of a sunset.

Where I come from
autumns are a grey shade of green;
they smell of mud
and the earth spilling its secrets.

Where I come from
the ground doesn't hide
in a blank shroud of silence;
it only glistens, leathery and dark,
like the first lines of a fairytale.

Where I come from
spring is dull,
only a brighter shade
of the everyday.

It doesn't breach the sky
with every shade of pink
and break the frost
with a vengeful thirst.

It simply stuffs the air
with the smell of orange blossom,
of youth, and the mocking promise
of a breeze…

(Originally posted on November 12, 2005)

4 comments:

katy said...

to be honest i've been so wrapped up in fiddling about with my link buttons and keeping up with the Critical Poet Forums that i haven't been reading your blog lately arch. sorry for that, really. and you posted the most lovely comment on morning child, that i decided it worth spending some time in your universe before heading off for a cosy night's sleep.

this piece has some different kind of dispare, some sort of worn out legend, a book burried deep beneath the earth for so long that the story has been completely forgotten until an innocent child might hap upon it. a brillaint grey.

thank you for sharing your work arch. and thank you for encouraging mine own.

Daniel Barkowitz said...

Great blog. And happy to have found you! I will be back to visit often (I hope)...

Your piece, "I write", is stirring...

Billy Jones said...

Guess what?

katy said...

arch, you made the list, congrats!