poetry critical

online poetry workshop


March brought the last snow
of the season.  Each flake fell
like a scab of dry skin
covering the fields in a thin
epidermis.  We ran
outside holding  hands
and turning our faces
to the sky.
We didn't speak, and I found I trusted
our silence more than the doctor's
diagnosis. Hours were spent staring
at the one sheet prognosis carefully
taped to the refrigerator.
We were hoping for a translation
from death to English. A word
we could wrap around a cure.

20 Feb 07

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Very moving.  I hope things have improved.  I find a core of honesty in this work.  Lookig forward to reading more of your poems
 — jbberg

"We" in L5 & 9 is redundant when read aloud.

This is fantastic - so honest.  
 — WordsAndMe