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?)
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.
ReplyDeleteThe 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.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the poem - it was a neat flow of feeling. Left a flower-knife in my mind.
Tom,
ReplyDeleteYour 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 SNOWMAN
A harrow on
a barrow, wheel-
barreling down
the snowy slope
would be
even more
harrowing.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts on this one; always appreciated.