Once I looked at the fringe of bare winter branches
against the sky’s horizon, and thought
Nature’s lace, so beautiful
It is still beautiful
but cold, so cold
Blue sky, cool like the season
black branches, dead without their leaves
The composition is distant, with no anchorage for my heart
Such abstract beauty beguiled me, when I was
warm, happy
Anchored
Now I drift in a world strange to me
the safe harbor is no more
With all havens closed, none open, abstract beauties chill me
already too numb and aching with it
Find me warmth
But there is no warmth in a world
grown harder and colder
Barren
There is no succor, no consolation
no beauty worth the name
In memory of my mother:
Exiled
Despair
Cold Rage
Bright Radiance
Beauty in the Close
Grievous Loss
This is beautiful. The anchor image strikes the same chord as the underlying magic theory in your fiction. If I’m remembering it right, when the nodes are no longer anchored, bad things happen.
Oh, interesting! Thanks, Laura. I’d not made that connection, but you are absolutely correct. Fascinating.
That is beautiful.
Thanks, Alex. I’ve written poetry nearly all my life, but rarely shared it with anyone before now. Which means that words of praise are much appreciated.