To make Comments write directly to Jim at jimt@quixotic.ca
21
Jan
2019
When it’s time for me to go,
I drift to the edges
of the bubbling broth
of chatter
and then I slip
silently
into the night outside.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: death, departure
I added a picture to this poem, so that you would have a better sense of the scene that prompted this reflection. You'll have to go to the main page to see it, though.
Fresh snow coats the spiky crowns of evergreens
into narrow cones of shining white
steepled against a brillig sky --
a vast convocation
of pointy white hoods.
Do spruce trees also
have pointy little brains
beneath their whited hoods?
Tags: KKK, spruce trees, snow cones