Photographer's Wife, Yosemite

Charis, Lake Ediza, California, 1937 by Edward Weston

Lips unmoving,
there's too little to say.

With feet propped on stone,
a new kind of cold.

Ice sheets below,
where silence pervades

And against this wall
a soul waits, unfazed.

Girded for war,
but heaving to be free

Why bother to blink,
with one's heart frozen shut?

Now once more, please,
and relax this time.

Then ready a fire
for the photographer's wife.

~a bit of poetry I wrote for Mag 142

Fractured

Whisperings in winter:

tales of memory and loss

chiseled in stone--

everywhere, the fallen.

Quietly lingering

amidst discarded wishes

and dreams of rebirth:

a lone figure

somehow summoning healing

in the passing shadows.

A scent of moss and ashes:

drifting, earthy,

leaves crackling underfoot,

trampled like so many forgotten hopes.  

One too young, found: 

lying grey,

cold, exposed--

not cracked, 

but split quite in two,

awaiting eternal repair.

trying my hand at some pre-Halloween poetry for Magpie 38.