is iron hard,
in a chrysalis
of churned mud.
frozen to jagged froth,
it breaks beneath boots
with the crunch of bones grinding.
beneath frostbitten fingers of clasping limbs,
tangled in blackberry briars blown barren,
drifted deep against dark boles
in the flotsam of frost
the old question waits,
a leviathan suspended
in gelatinous dreams—
what if this time
the weary sun
averts her face
16 thoughts on “A poem for January 7”
this is great. such beautiful imagery, Brenda.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read and respond! I really appreciate it.
if i like someone’s writing i always tell them why. it’s only fair. x
I should have known you’re a fabulous poet, too.
Thanks, Stan! I’m on a fear-facing kick–I avoided poetry for years after a professor returned a bunch of poems to me with “I HATE THIS TITLE” scrawled at the top of the first one. The criticism didn’t get any gentler from there. 🙂
Professor Stan says you get an A+
I agree with Professor Stan!
What Stan said. LOVE.
Beautiful! Yes it does seem, sometimes, that this time the sun might avert her eyes . . .
Thank you so much, Tina. Some dark little primal part of me always wonders…..
You just reminded me of something rather essential:
Thanks, Marisa. Sometimes I need to be reminded of poetry, too.
Oh Brenna. Winter brings out something elemental in your writing. I just love it. I feel the cold and connection all at the same time. xo!
Thanks to my father who informed me about this webpage, this webpage is actually
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