Relics

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Relics

Here lie the sweet, arrested buds

scorched by a sudden frost.

Withered now those unborn blooms,

sweet scent forever lost.

Reposing here, such shrunken bones

descendents will forget

lie undisturbed in silent tombs,

promise untested yet.

Here we find unyielding knots,

perpetual sand-swell dunes,

thorns that pierce the unaware,

scars thickened over wounds.

Should they reside in endless peace,

not see the light of day?

These dusty relics locked within;

the things we didn’t say.

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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

cathyb’s Poems (5)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The show 0
As Each Leaf Falls... 0
Fear of falling 1
Relics 0
Love is not... 0

cathyb’s Friends (3)