“Morning, mourning” is the little blade here. Both poems feel like weather doing emotional labor, which is frankly very on brand for weather. Snow makes the world quiet enough for red birds and bent spines to become revelations. Morning is less polite. It arrives viscous, insistent, dragging us out of dreams whether grief is finished with us or not. The sun does not ask if we are ready to rise. Rude little star. Holy little tyrant. Still, we rise.
That final shift from "morning" to "mourning" completely recontextualizes the whole piece, it captures that heavy, aching feeling where the world forces you to wake up but your heart is still stuck in the past ✨
The cardinals becoming just red birds~ Snow can cancel the whole day and still have the nerve to place little red witnesses in the yard, like evidence with feathers. XD
hahah are they "really unrelated?" can anything truly be "separate" are we "completely independent?" what was in you when these poems arose? YOU are the link between these 2 apparently "unrelated things" lol looooveeee youuuu!!! aho mitakusyin! to all my relations!!!
Kim, these poems feel like two different windows into the same house of memory. Snowed carries a quiet simplicity that transforms ordinary winter images into something luminous, while Morning unfolds with a dreamlike cadence that gradually reveals its grief. The final turn..."Everything aches, still / in this insistent morning, mourning lands with remarkable force. Such a small phrase, yet it holds an entire history of loss.
These are both wonderful. The second one makes me feel I should start getting up earlier to greet the day. Love, Virg
I guess the son did leave us yesterday. Jerk.
“Morning, mourning” is the little blade here. Both poems feel like weather doing emotional labor, which is frankly very on brand for weather. Snow makes the world quiet enough for red birds and bent spines to become revelations. Morning is less polite. It arrives viscous, insistent, dragging us out of dreams whether grief is finished with us or not. The sun does not ask if we are ready to rise. Rude little star. Holy little tyrant. Still, we rise.
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A wondrous bit of writing
Thank you, sir.
That final shift from "morning" to "mourning" completely recontextualizes the whole piece, it captures that heavy, aching feeling where the world forces you to wake up but your heart is still stuck in the past ✨
Thanks, Brandi!
The cardinals becoming just red birds~ Snow can cancel the whole day and still have the nerve to place little red witnesses in the yard, like evidence with feathers. XD
...like evidence with feathers. There's a poem in that phrase. You should write it.
Beautifully written.
Thank you, and thanks for stopping by.
hahah are they "really unrelated?" can anything truly be "separate" are we "completely independent?" what was in you when these poems arose? YOU are the link between these 2 apparently "unrelated things" lol looooveeee youuuu!!! aho mitakusyin! to all my relations!!!
Fair. Fair. Certainly related to me!
Awesome
thanks.
Kim, these poems feel like two different windows into the same house of memory. Snowed carries a quiet simplicity that transforms ordinary winter images into something luminous, while Morning unfolds with a dreamlike cadence that gradually reveals its grief. The final turn..."Everything aches, still / in this insistent morning, mourning lands with remarkable force. Such a small phrase, yet it holds an entire history of loss.
Beautiful work. Monica
Thank you for reading and commenting so thoughtfully, Monica.
It is always a pleasure to read your work.
"You left me yesterday. Or was it the year before?" oof. That one hits. Thank you.
Grief hits like that, sometimes, yes?
Verses and pic: devastating good.
Thanks, Marco.
How beautiful. This line
eyes refusing daylight
Touched something deep inside me.
Thank you.
Your reading and comments always mean a lot. Thanks for stopping by.