Silversun

I think
Emily knew some things,

like how the winter light was different,
sometimes.

I think
of her whenever I feel the silversun,

brightcold,
instead of softwarm.

The harshness of
winter’s glare somehow both dull and sharp,

the unending grey
sky.

She knew
what it looked like;

I could have made a friend in her,
I imagine,

because
before I ever saw her words,

or
heard them,

I knew them in my own head,
I knew them in my own heart

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Silversun

  1. araneus1 says:

    Emily is a lucky person being remembered so fondly.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.