new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
So good the way the red edge blade road palate-tappings and chewings-over of the thought open out at the driven turning into an open field of flower, harrow and snow. Cut, edged, harrowed and winterwheat-like harvested in the moment of that opening.The word I keep reading through the words is the one that's not here: blood.(Is it just morning exhaustion vision or have I just now seen that red blade edge in the snow drifts on the buffalo plains?)
Tripping over a harrow in the snow would suck.Thanks for the poem - it was a neat flow of feeling. Left a flower-knife in my mind.
Tom,Your keen scout's eye's discovered those almost imperceptible red tracks here, just as you found out The Squint-eyed Kid you-know-where.Peter,FOR THE MIND OF A SNOWMANA harrow ona barrow, wheel-barreling downthe snowy slopewould be even moreharrowing.Thanks for sharing your thoughts on this one; always appreciated.