Posts Tagged ‘“Walking In The New Winter Woods”’

“Walking In The New Winter Woods”…..poetry

November 28, 2014

mignot-winter-skating-scene

.

 WALKING IN THE NEW WINTER WOODS

.

Walking in the new winter woods,

the crunch of frozen ground beneath

my boots,

my dog’s paws will be sore tonight

for we aim far afield.

.

I think of this morning when we

argued at breakfast,

the smell of maple bacon should

stop all that, but didn’t.

.

We can’t get past the desiccated ghosts

who have taken up residence in our hearts, inviting

slights and outright blows never delivered

but still lingering in the air.

.

I took the gun loaded with birdshot

in case there was a duck down by the pond.

Was, but those were sitting ducks

didn’t seem right, too easy a target

like this morning at breakfast when either one

of us could have let swing and landed a good one

on tender flesh and raw nerves.

.

The dog is game for hunting, but my heart

isn’t in it.

.

My thoughts go back to you standing there,

that old apron around your waist,

determined not to let me see tears

and my heart cracks and soon I head back with

a peace offering of a bough of holly.

.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2014

“Walking In The New Winter Woods” originally published in “White Cranes of Heaven”, Lulu.com, 2011

“Walking In the New Winter Woods”, posted for OneShotWednesdays

November 2, 2010

"Mallards at Dawn", jane kohut-bartels, watercolor, 2006

This poem will be published in the coming book: “White Cranes of Heaven” .

WALKING IN THE NEW WINTER WOODS

Walking in the new winter woods

the crunch of frozen ground beneath

my boots,

my dog’s paws will be sore tonight

for we aim far afield.

I think of this morning when we

argued at breakfast,

the smell of maple bacon should have

stopped all that, but didn’t.

We can’t get past the desiccated ghosts

who have moved into our hearts, inviting

slights and outright blows never delivered

but still lingering in the air.

I loaded the gun with birdshot

in case there was a duck down by the pond.

Was, but they were those sitting ducks

didn’t seem right, too easy a target

like this morning at breakfast when either one

of us could have let swing and landed a good one

on tender flesh and raw nerves.

The dog is game for hunting, but my heart

isn’t in it.

My thoughts go back you standing there,

that old apron around your  waist,

determined not to let me see tears

and my heart cracks and soon I head back with

a peace offering of a bough of holly.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010


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