65th Letter

Winter. I wish
I could write about it
like a Midwesterner,
like a dweller
of the northern plains.


Black bones of trees,
nerves of lively death.
The bite of wind,
the zero shock.
January brushed
ruthlessly flat.


Winter. Its name
breaks across the mind
like a chilled twig
snapped for kindling.


There is haven,
warmth, in the voice
of a poem. Yours.

Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-01-07 at 14:12

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Brilliant perfunctory stark imagery in the first three stanzas. A fine read.

You're great.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Respite; very nice.

I like it very much. I like the ending especially. :)

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
You do a very nice job of imagining. It works, it's accurate, then steps into your inner-vision.