Wednesday, March 13, 2013

the perfect circle


i feigned sickness
to be close to my mother
the days long and gray
the mountains slatted
with cold spring rain
and the clanking trains
on the winding tracks
that ran along the river


canvasses strewn
sticky with paint
and the strong smell
of turpentine on rags
laying in the corners
of the smoky room
made me drowsy
and faint


and always
out the window
through the mist
a witness tree
a solitary sentinel
on top of the hill
its lacy branches
forming a perfect circle
against a willing sky

4 comments:

Okie Prof said...

Sigh, you've gone and done it again, your words and images transporting me to a world my eyes perhaps haven't seen, but I have seen deep inside. Thank you.

Karen said...

My comment must have disappeared! I left one yesterday.

Anyway, what I said was that this poem takes me there through the haze of the years. I can see, smell, and feel that place. Loved your mom!

Ronald Rabenold said...

thanks again K. Moving. Descriptive of so many personal memories of mine. Universal.

Ronald Rabenold said...

Once again you move the reader into the depths of their own experience and make the feel connected to the universal...thanks again for sharing...