All prickle
and cripple
dry
and dead
the thistle
erupts
it has lost
any visible
memory
of its bright
purple song
in exchange
for a softer,
wintrier tongue,
casting a spell for
what comes,
oh flurry of tiny
white wands.
September 11, 2011 by Rosemerry
All prickle
and cripple
dry
and dead
the thistle
erupts
it has lost
any visible
memory
of its bright
purple song
in exchange
for a softer,
wintrier tongue,
casting a spell for
what comes,
oh flurry of tiny
white wands.
Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment
The sounds of that first stanza are very fine, all those short i words rattling like potato chips. And I like the flurry of tiny wands. That’s a spell my field could do without, but such a lovely way to say it.
I hope that pic is from last winter and not recently.
We are off to CA for a couple weeks, where it will hopefully be warm.