Revision
for Jadis
The first flakes were not white, but red.
Before light, before night, there was
an everlasting tree.
Before the tree,
if you held a stone
to your ear
it would whisper
of seeds beneath soil--
the buds restless.
If you warmed the stone
between your hands,
it would pulse like the heart
of a traitor
on your too-white skin,
like a blush.
~~~
R1: Trying out Leanne's opening. It seems less choppy for some reason. Chris suggesting to invert the last two lines really works for me. It plays off the stone/heart image better. I also like how it seems to tie to the opening better. bena I appreciated your reinforcement on the choices as well. I thought about restlessness, but did not wish to make that change at this time. Thanks all.
Original
for Jadis
The first flakes were red--not white.
Before light, before night, there was
an everlasting tree.
Before the tree,
if you held a stone
to your ear
it would whisper
of seeds beneath soil--
the buds restless.
If you warmed the stone
between your hands,
it would pulse like the heart
of a traitor,
like a blush
on your too-white skin.
~~~
Slight edit: combined two strophes
for Jadis
The first flakes were not white, but red.
Before light, before night, there was
an everlasting tree.
Before the tree,
if you held a stone
to your ear
it would whisper
of seeds beneath soil--
the buds restless.
If you warmed the stone
between your hands,
it would pulse like the heart
of a traitor
on your too-white skin,
like a blush.
~~~
R1: Trying out Leanne's opening. It seems less choppy for some reason. Chris suggesting to invert the last two lines really works for me. It plays off the stone/heart image better. I also like how it seems to tie to the opening better. bena I appreciated your reinforcement on the choices as well. I thought about restlessness, but did not wish to make that change at this time. Thanks all.
Original
for Jadis
The first flakes were red--not white.
Before light, before night, there was
an everlasting tree.
Before the tree,
if you held a stone
to your ear
it would whisper
of seeds beneath soil--
the buds restless.
If you warmed the stone
between your hands,
it would pulse like the heart
of a traitor,
like a blush
on your too-white skin.
~~~
Slight edit: combined two strophes
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson