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"Dead of Winter"

Random Poetry List XIV

Dead of Winter

Your clear hands call my name.
They dance in the dark light of the fire
With the odor of oakwood and roses
And death. Dead of winter.

What became of the starving birds?
They fell into a waste of snow.
So it is with words.
They flash like sudden angels, go
Away like ghosts. So with the trees
And us, too, made of morning breeze.

Salvatore Quasimodo (Italian, 1901-1968)

Originally e-mailed on Wednesday, February 24, 1999 @ 9:39 PM.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Thu. 02/24/05 07:02:00 AM
Categorized as Literary & Random Poetry List.

   
         
         

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