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greatpoetry2004-06-14 11:44 am
bluerosesgirl.livejournal.com) wrote in greatpoetry2004-06-14 11:44 am
Memoranda - Carl Sandburg
This handful of grass, brown, says little. This quarter mile field of it, waving seeds ripening in the sun, is a lake of luminous firefly lavender.
Prairie roses, two of them, climb down the sides of a road ditch. In the clear pool they find their faces along stiff knives of grass, and cat-tails who speak and keep thoughts in beaver brown.
These gardens empty; these fields only flower ghosts; these yards with faces gone; leaves speaking as feet and skirts in slow dances to slow winds; I turn my head and say good-by to no one who hears; I pronounce a useless good-by.
Prairie roses, two of them, climb down the sides of a road ditch. In the clear pool they find their faces along stiff knives of grass, and cat-tails who speak and keep thoughts in beaver brown.
These gardens empty; these fields only flower ghosts; these yards with faces gone; leaves speaking as feet and skirts in slow dances to slow winds; I turn my head and say good-by to no one who hears; I pronounce a useless good-by.
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i have some amazing writer friends and this piece reminds me of something a close friend would write...
what a beautiful find and share...thank you
can't get "these gardens empty; these fields only flower ghosts; these yards with faces gone" out of my head! truly romantic and powerful and sad till the bitter sweet ending "i pronounce a useless good-by"
*soft sigh*