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The Glow
In the cold of ending night,
there was only quiet.
Ice, in patches like broken glass,
was the only shimmer of life
leftover sky that had met this earth.
With a swell of dull yellow,
distant trees appeared
in blackened edge on newborn blue.
Folds of frost on sides of hills
hesitated to gleam, as not to mar
low fog that twined
between vines and thorns
of weathered rambling rose.
All the valley came alive,
the colored waking of dreamed pallette.
Oak and maple dressing
chose reds and golds for morning robes.
Soon, the mountain simply glowed,
afire, in tones of Autumn.
The Girl, The Pen, and I
I went back to seek out what had shimmered inside-
that silvered something which enticed the pen
of a New England girl, then left her alone
under an elm, writing about Death.
There were some vines entwined on her tree;
I think they were ivy, the shinier kind.
She moved over, and folded her skirt,
leaving me room to sit on a root
and dream along with her in leaf-clouded sky.
She asked me if I could remember a time
when shimmering things would hood-wink my eye,
and leaves were covered with whiteness and snow-
or if I, despite the cold, could ever come to love her.
A resident of Bowmansdale, Pennsylvania, Cynthia is the Administrator of Liquid Poetry and is currently chairing Poetry Jam 2003, an artistic gathering to be held in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania this Spring. She is currently a featured writer of Euphoria, and recently has won acclaim at Aspiring Poets, SoulStarz Gallery and Deeper Into The Void.
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