a curved knife lays on the table
as a fire crackles
and the wood-smells
fill our mind
the cold looks into our home
with disinterest
you lay
stretched out in the bed
a woolen blanket wrapped
around your form
and
I cannot see your
face
I see this scene
as clearly as I see these
words flow from my
fingers
but I cannot
see your face
maybe there’s reason
for this
I look at the log walls,
the books stacked on the
book shelf made of raw
timber,
the pattern in your quilt,
your face
but I cannot see it,
I cannot remember it
I wonder constantly
when this picture shall
be complete
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
a curved knife lays on the table
as a fire crackles
and the wood-smells
fill our mind
the cold looks into our home
with disinterest
you lay
stretched out in the bed
a woolen blanket wrapped
around your form
and
I cannot see your
face
I see this scene
as clearly as I see these
words flow from my
fingers
but I cannot
see your face
maybe there’s reason
for this
I look at the log walls,
the books stacked on the
book shelf made of raw
timber,
the pattern in your quilt,
your face
but I cannot see it,
I cannot remember it
I wonder constantly
when this picture shall
be complete
Request permission to use this poem