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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2020-11-17 15:35:12 -08:00
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writing/poetry/haiku.html
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@ -98,9 +98,9 @@ Yet I risk a glance.
Who gave the birds flight and song?</div>
<hr />
<p>Pale she &mdash; 2020-11-15</p>
<div class="verse">The eye turns inward,
vision dims and movement stills &mdash;
winter has claimed her.
<div class="verse">Her eye turns inward,
vision dims and movement stills
as winter claims her.
Thoughts like leaves fall slow,
hesitate, drift, rustle, sigh.
@ -108,7 +108,7 @@ Frost-rimed remnants rot.
Some paler she asks: <br />
do you see the sky through me?
Do I shake in gusts?
Do I frame its mien?
That pale she lacks words.
She does not speak, cannot speak
@ -116,10 +116,10 @@ without the wind&rsquo;s hum.
Still she asks, all breath,
am I invisible yet?
Does snow blend with sky?
Does snow tend steel skies?
Her breath is gone now.
Dark branches write on the clouds:
And when her breath fails,
dark branches write on the clouds:
Summer is a dream.
Paler still, she cracks.
@ -128,59 +128,59 @@ false springs to thaw hands.
Silent now, demands:
there must be an end, there must be.
Spring and life, or fire.
Spring, silence, or fire.
No one answers her.
She stands stark against flat skies,
frost claims bark, claims wood.
ice claims bark, claims wood.
Darkness comes, sight black.
Darkness comes heavy.
Sleep for now, sleep forever,
midwinter cares not.
Neither does coarse bark.
How could sweet wood think of whens?
Neither, now, does she.
How could pale wood think of whens?
Of thaws and green things?
The sun may promise:
The sun tells her lies:
Melting snow will feed your roots,
Seasons imply change.
She&rsquo;s not listening.
She does not listen.
Pale she does not believe him:
Brother sun&rsquo;s too quick.
Brother sun tells time,
Brother sun tolls days,
and pale she has no more need
for hours with seasons.
Brother sun&rsquo;s movements
are breaths: cycles far too short
are breaths to her: days blink slow
when spring is a dream.
Sister moon speaks up:
Sister moon speaks now:
follow me, set time by me &mdash;
my months are guideposts.
Pale she can but sleep.
She cares not now if she wakes.
Pale she sleeps, sleeps still.
Waking her may have listened.
Endless winter calms.
She welcomes the cold.
She invites cold in.
Water, crystallized, freezes;
cells lyse, dye in droves.
cells lyse, die in droves.
If spring never comes,
pale she supposes, that&rsquo;s fine.
In winter, she&rsquo;ll dream.
Winter is for dreams.
She&rsquo;ll dream, or she won&rsquo;t.
Fatalism waxes fast,
cold claims her heartwood.
She&rsquo;ll carry on or she won&rsquo;t.
Cold has claimed heartwood.
No one perceives her.
She becomes mere terrain.
Sleeps, and does not wake.
She becomes terrain&rsquo;s wild hair,
a forgiven sin.
Would she wake for saws?
For axes with keen-edged blades?
@ -191,15 +191,15 @@ And still the moon waxes, wanes.
And still seasons change.
Should pale she not wake,
so be it, her mute demise.
venerate her mute demise.
Cut her down, cord her.
A new life in fire,
for even life must winter.
Pale she born anew.</div>
for pale she gives heat in death.
Let this be her spring.</div>
</article>
<footer>
<p>Page generated on 2020-11-15</p>
<p>Page generated on 2020-11-17</p>
</footer>
</main>
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