To The Endearing One

Of all the forgiveness I possessed

     In my tidy heart,

I could not purge myself of enmity

     In all the summers of my years;

I could not tend the blossoms that 

     Sprouted from the wilted soil within.

When winter kissed my cheek I pressed 

     The beauties in my leather book

To preserve the frozen garden 

     In verity for the pages of leaves. 

When they poked their tiny heads  

     In every revival of spring,

I pulled out my trowel the same as before,

     And rolled my apron up.

Reviews

[writing mojo]

sight in the fair weather of seasonal spite, you pass through words presented worldly, yet in spirit of a poet forever addressed in an attire of guesses questing...good stuff

[The Analog Kid]

You write with the flair of the great poets of the past. So many beautifully written lines. Looking forward to reading more of your stuff.

[*~*Butterfly Kisses*~*]

I loved this and thought it was beautifully penned. But one minor issue..tidy heart? It didnt seem to work for me usually when I think of something being tidy its neat and orderly but using it to describe a heart....theres a bit of confusion.

But all in all, this was wonderful. Nicely done.

[WhiteWillow]

This is a beautiful piece, lyrically written.

[Clockwork]

I really enjoy the older tone and style that you use in your work. It reminds me very much of some of the British Romantic Period poets. It is actually extremely refreshing to see that there are poets such as yourself who keep the tradition alive.

I also really liked the extended metaphor you creates with pressing the blossoms into the book. One represents how love lies dormant, while the other embodies the record of existence and when the two are at peace, exquisite things occur.

[Tate Morgan]

You have a Emily Dickinson air to you. So deep you seem to look and then find the truth
Softened by Time's consummate plush,
How sleek the woe appears
That threatened childhood's citadel
And undermined the years.

Bisected now, by bleaker griefs,
We envy the despair
That devastated childhood's realm,
So easy to repair.
Emily Dickinson

[Nao Deguchi]

Sometimes in our self-assesment, we are cruelest to ourselves? It's a martyrhood of being female, being the more conscientious sex. Men, in their open ignorance, have already befriended themselves.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Classical training for sure. A garden of excellence I think.

[MAC]

Written in classic style me likes. Has a great flow to it and is thought provoking. Filled will many original lines and twists. Excellent write. Gee what a boring review, this piece deserves better...very sorry.