65th Letter to a Poet

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. Your poem.





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 87 times
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Written on 2018-11-11 at 09:47

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night soul woman The PoetBay support member heart!
The build up until the last three lines makes this poem so touching!Well done!Without the cold we would not be able to appreciate the warm
2018-11-18


StillHoppin The PoetBay support member heart!
I love this! Just wow! My favorite bit is:


Black bones of trees,
nerves of lively death.


though I love it all. I also adore that you've ended it such a comforting way. Another's voice (spoken or written) can indeed mean safety and even home.
2018-11-13


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the home page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry website
2018-11-11