Vigil for Winter

“Must I hold a candle to my shames?”  – The Merchant of Venice


These stars are Roman
candles to my scars, splitting
this sky wide open with lust
-er. My crippled hands are
crocuses, poking up through
snow, shadowed,
infinite in prayer. There’s a
flicker here, you see. Of
silver-slivered cloud, of
tumbled rain, of sleepy ebony
sky to cover my un
-quiet skin in down
blanket. Of hope. Of
healing. Of wings, even
in the face of flame,
and all this melting
Quickly prompted.


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5 Responses to Vigil for Winter

  1. I’m glad you have so many scars (featured in your poems of late.)

  2. This is a great prayer poem – of giving yourself up to a higher power.

  3. Shawna says:

    “My crippled hands are
    crocuses” I love that. I think I started a poem like that once — “My hands are crocuses.”

    “sleepy ebony” “sleepy bone” … Love both.

    Melting wax and a blanket of hope — sounds like bliss to me.

    • whimsygizmo says:

      I wrote one way back about hands as crocuses, too. I remembered it as I was writing this one, but then couldn’t find it. I bet the first time I wrote that image, I had absorbed it from you. 😉 That happens, quite a bit. You are making me a better writer. What’s the saying? “Artists borrow; geniuses steal?”

  4. Lerene Forte says:

    Oh my gosh, you’re way too good at this.

Use your words.

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