Monday, April 18, 2011

What I didn't tell you

did I say how the snow crunched beneath those rusty runners,

the baler twine frayed in wet mittens,

how the gravel stuck to sand, but not rainwater?

did you get the musty smell of the haymow,

the mud nests of the swallows,

how my tears were pillowed in the black grey ruff of my dog,

facing north,

blurred as the shifting streaked curtains of the aurora


  1. O my god, Miss Jane, yes I did. I did. I did.

    My breath sucked up into the sky somewhere with this out-loud read. You are truly gifted, and these words bring tears to a lover of winter with memories of rusty runners, wool mittens.

    I'm in happy stun mode. (and I don't want to stop typing . . . )

  2. So where is the heart's true north, anyway? Any more precise than the fleeting borealis? And what could that mean for anyone else? Thus the questions asked long after their facts. The poem. Pure gossamer, Miz Jane.

  3. Thank you both for your kind comments. I was trying to jam these lines into another poem and they took off on their own.
    @Brendan, I'm working through Julia Cameron's "The Artist's Way" and I realized after reading your comment, that one of the exercises was about finding our true north. Funny that it should surface in my writing this way--that "facing north" had a certain resonance in my head that felt right.

  4. What a striking voice you have, it rings, as a bell. (And I'm listening.)

    Thanks for visiting my waffle house, for leaving a comment, as it drew me to your words here, on wings.

    PS: Do you mind if I link to this poem on the sidebar of my blog? It's love-at-first-read.

  5. Thank you, Terresa. I would be honored.

  6. i sigh. i read this when you first posted and shamefully left full and without commenting, then found it once again at Terresa's. i'm glad. it tells me great things about feeling, thinking, holding, yearning and writing. you are a wonder, a delicate wonder.