Age Rating: 10 +
Nothing is moving this winter morn,
Only the horses in their roomy paddock,
Waiting for breakfast.
I sit on a fence rail,
Watching them through the fog.
Trees, denuded of summer green,
Lift dark, gnarled fingers toward heaven--
One can almost hear the pagan incantations--
Or is is it merely a horse,
whickering to its neighbor?
I lie on my back
in the fresh fallen white,
Wearing a green toboggan
And bright red mittens,
Desperately dreaming of Polynesia
Under bright warm sun--
Making snow angels.
Have never been to Russia,
And missed the USSR completely--
Fervent sigh of relief--
These days I wander Proletarian sands
Of a broad white beach,
Chasing a fat red ball
With my granddaughter.
Comments on this Article/Poem:
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Your personification, giving inanimate objects human qualities is wonderful. I had to look up whickering and proletarian, their meaning.
The poem is interesting and a good read.
(I also thought "Jane, Far Away" was a good too, it deserved 5 stars. My message did not post for some reason, bad computor, who knows.)
Mae Futter Stein
Sometimes it is nice on a winter day or night, just lying on your back thinking of all the things and dreams of past things in ones life.
It is like your own television of life past, that you can watch and remember. Nice write.
I'm going to have to read this one again, and maybe again, then who knows? But I thought I'd at least put down these first impressions.
The stuff that good is writing is made of--like this work.