It started out snowy and continued to pile on the white,
as though to trash love, missing for years, more than a
decade has passed since we last loved to talk with more
than a flower, frozen now beneath reflected sun, cleaning
as though she was found, and how could we not see
clearly to truth, what happened when daring men see
darkly to youth, taking and basking in evil.
It's only now, years have passed in still cracking voices,
staccato in emotion, attacking a last outpost, a fort that
doubles as nursery rhymes, taken to extreme they explain
a mother lost in cemeteries, wanting for more than blooms,
as life ebbs with ice, crackling in glasses, mirrored in what
we know as life beneath glass, she waits biding her time
as men plot the demise of yearning fathers.
Yes the cover is here for all sorts of winter gloom, waiting
for minutes, hours to pounce on unsuspecting backseats,
for only a minute the see the nicest family broken,
falling down steps as a black car steadily parks for a nice
dinner that isn't really that, as exclaimed on the poster of
a formal missing girl, she reflects in strangers seated there -
for all to suspect she will be found, recovered in winter.
© 2015 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.