When the days are short and we're in darkness
And the solstice came and been
And you marvel at the trees in all their starkness
Unchanged is the Evergreen.
Leaves turned colour, then they'd fallen
The air is crisp and clean
A dash of snow and the countries stalling,
Stand still like the Evergreen.
Christmas coming, families arranged,
Lights dance and set the scene.
She counts back and is unchanged,
Unchanged as the Evergreen.
A New Year and same old story
Never knowing what it could mean.
In stagnation there is no glory,
So why so Evergreen?
She eats your poison, dies inside,
You steal her breath, unseen,
And loved the way she cursed and cried,
Unchanged like the Evergreen.
About the Creator
A. Russell
Writing poetry is my jam and life is my wholemeal bread.
Keep reading
More stories from A. Russell and writers in Poets and other communities.
Your Heart Knows
Dearest, For betterment or for worse,I bury my feet inches deepAnd the tendrils of my awareness deeper still.Here in the now and there in the then andAhead in the next, searching for the sun,Like the grapevine growing in confines,Not discouraged by its constraints, butVivaciously unfurling each budding hopeAnd chancing, and dancing with the wind.And she isn't afraid to climb!And she isn't afraid to die!When the days get darker,She doesn't resist and begins to let go.Everything she carries - every leaf, every fruit.She releases all that she created and all that she is.Dearest, she flows with the ebb andFlows with the flowAnd she knows the impermanence of everythingShe knows.She the knows this is permanent.And Dearest, for betterment or for worse,I plant you deep in the skin of experience,And the muscles of all those who came before you,And the jaws of a place often unkind,With a heart that knows all that she knows,And in your eyes are windows.Grow, Dearest! Grow!Truly.
By A. Russell5 years ago in Poets
The Singer So Shy
She stood near the cold fireplace, watching the second-hand tick down to the hour. In another minute, the clock's bird would emerge and warble the hour. She reached up and touched the clock, tracing the gentle slope of the farmhouse roof, then trailing down the lilac strewn side, to the white fence framed dooryard. She wished she was there, where the air would smell of lilacs rather than smoke.
By Judah LoVato6 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.