Sunday August 19, 2012 Sunday Whirl #70

Sunday Whirl

Memory of Winter’s Cold Breath
The morning breaks
Like a crystal goblet
Shattering to the floor
You are there
On the tip of dreams

The world of the mesa is tinted
A vivid pink by early morning light
Tiny sparkles glitter
Gently nick memory bubble

Drifts of snow from years past
Split past and present
The tide rises
Waves of memory
Wash over me
Crash to the shore

There is nothing to be fixed
Tinny sounds of church bells
In faraway distance
Prelude to coming of
Winter’s cold breath
Insidious down my jacket
Freezing limbs
Which never seem to wake

16 thoughts on “Sunday August 19, 2012 Sunday Whirl #70

  1. I felt you took me into a snow globe..magical..life suspended and moving all at once…reminds me that life is fragile and beautiful..winter will be welcome if it is like this..i love ‘there is nothing to be fixed’..like all is well as the bells ring..jae

  2. Oh, I don’t like the relentless heat of summer but, do not welcome winter either. It’s such hard work to have to shovel when enough falls to have to, and, especially when you already broke your ankle on ice. Yikes. No, don’t look forward to winters anymore and yet, do love looking at the beauty of fresh snow fall too. Your poem is gorgeous in its imagery and makes me look forward to the snow, even though I hate shoveling it…lol

  3. You brought to mind a few winters ago, when by full moon light I saw a fox loping through the snow. It was deep enough that it covered her legs but her tail stayed in a straight line above the snow…a magical moment. While I enjoy all seasons, Autumn after the first frost (no more bugs) is still my favorite.

    Thanks for your visit. Yes, I can see how ‘Split’ is one of those challenging words…I think prelude and insidious were a couple more.

  4. No, no poem from my end, but I miss visiting everyone, so am coming around to read.
    I love the story this tells and the images it gives us. That first stanza is gorgeous. I felt as if I were looking at a painting as I read the poem.

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