You must not look at me in failing light.
The measure of the moment is too bright.
The cold, gold sunset hurts my eyes tonight.
I will not listen to those panes of gray.
Touch was so articulate that day
The smoke of ironweed warmed resolve away.
Your West Virginia face was poetry.
I loved the hollows of its symmetry
Too much to know it could not shelter me.
There was something so fine about that hill,
Your old house standing bravely up to chill,
While white wind heaped dead leaves upon the sill.
Close your gray eyes the meaning is too plain.
They sing me Wednesday like an old refrain,
But sun will not stand still for that again.
Yes, I agree with Charles, this is clearly an exceptional poem. I also agree with Nimal, I do believe you have a similarity describing love as does Neruda. Sandra you have penned another work of art. Thankkyou---Melvina
you write about love and there is something so fine with the way you do it... 'There was something so fine about that hill, Your old house standing bravely up to chill, While white wind heaped dead leaves upon the sill. Close your gray eyes the meaning is too plain. They sing me Wednesday like an old refrain, But sun will not stand still for that again.' When seeing is just not enough..You describe so many sides of love in your own way with such tenderness - and sadness With love Pia
Regret and pain penned without resentment and yet with a deep sorrow. A moving tender-hearted poem. I believe the most beautiful poetry is inspired by the experiencing of profound anguish. This is beautiful. love, Allie xxxx
Your Title says it all... pure poetry... I wish I could write in this style... aroha
Your West Virginia face was poetry. I loved the hollows of its symmetry Too much to know it could not shelter me. Particularly this, and all other stanzas, create a melancholic symphony by touching the (I do not know which) cords of the heart! A soft music that plays on and on even when one is done with the reading part.
An emotional write cloaked in sadness...beautifully written Sandra
the pain of letting go of something so fine, so beautiful... the anguish is searing....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's really beautiful.