With a sudden thump,
Heavy with finality,
The formless hand of time tosses another trowelful of soft,
Loamy earth atop a small box
Whose contents are forevermore hidden
To the eyes of consciousness.
The gentle breath of forgetfulness stirs the soft wisps of moist steam
That curl in faint tendrils from the gash
In the rich,
Brown,
Soil.
Rain falls.
Now gentle,
Now torrential,
And the ground forgets the scar
Beneath the choking weeds of regret.
In a whisper of time,
All is forgotten to dust
And loss.
July 19th, 2017 at 1:21 pm
Love the “unknown” in this piece. The buried might be sinister, sorrowful or regretful in nature. Love the ground forgetting its scar. Nice!
July 23rd, 2017 at 8:11 am
I like this, the ending esp.
Some redundancy here (wisps aRe soft and steam iS moist and tendrils aRe faint)
“stirs the soft wisps of moist steam
That curl in faint tendrils from the gash”
Perhaps something like “stirs moist wisps that…”
I know. Feels like butchery.
Very nice job with the metaphors and imagery. The poem isn’t so HeAvY,
July 23rd, 2017 at 8:23 am
It’s been a while.
The redundancy wasn’t clear to me. Now I see it. Inefficient poetry is bothersome. Drat. I’m out of practice.
The first two lines don’t work together – I think the first ‘with’ might be wrong.
August 11th, 2017 at 9:42 pm
Interesting comments! Gives me insights on how to look st my poetry, too. But I like how the poem carried me.