I don’t often come back here
To this no-place place
where we roamed hapless,
in seasons long ago.
But the darkening November sky
called low to me,
called me away from the dull gold fields
to the narrow lane along
the low-banked river.
I park the car and walk the lane.
I think you,
you young,
Face-up in the September grasses.
The cattails carry an edge of frost.
Winter has come early this year,
Stealing you away.
I walk toward the sound
Of water and the shush of grasses.
I know that what I want is cold.
I know that what you want is cold.
That what you want is dark water
Rushing below swirled ice.
And I so I hide
and so I let you hide,
in the bare cottonwoods.
Copyright Kay Winter
odhranwrites 
WOW, this is such incredibly fine writing…I’m stunned.
Thank you! Thanks for reading!
You’re most welcome!
I can’t pretend to understand every nuance of this lovely poem, each turn of phrase of loss and mourning, whether for the narrator or ‘mother earth.’ Very moving from the turn of seasons, from the end of the day, to the knowing of dark.
Thank you. I don’t pretend to understand it either. Sometimes, the mystery has to come through me.
[…] Mother Earth […]
Thanks for reading…