November rain
Raining
on bare trees
and yellow leaves
to fertilize the roots
for the winter around the corner.
I see moss
to collect
handed down to a
crib
always new.
Emerges a snail,
moving the house
in new places.
I wash the skin
and soul
in the rain
of the dead.
| Print Article | This article was published by braze November 2, 2009 at 14:49 and is filed under The Brazi Poems , Poetry , Writing . You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0 . You can post a comment or report a trackback from your own site. |
about 1 year ago
The final sentence, the rain of the dead, I am reminded that the Imagine for a long time for me is what is sadness, sadness but not a "sweet", but that troubled, that painful, like a black hole that deep : the rain that flows towards evening on the graves. This for me is the image of the darkest sadness.
But instead your verses are of rebirth, of hope, of things to come.
Reading, for all the poetry I thought about the hope and ... "rain of the dead" I submitted my picture of gloom for what we become.