©Cynthia
Dawn Clevenger
A name abandoned,
to lay in winter,
covered in the frost
of forgetting.
A poor boy born
into sadness
grown into a man
who died in tears.
On a tiny plot of land
he walked through his dreams.
His voice locked in secrets
his lips could never speak.
An oak tree cries its grief
into the northern wind
that the man who tenderly pruned it
now lays an erased memory
confined to frozen dust.
©Susie Clevenger 2012
Created for the Sunday Snap Shot 11/11/12 at New World Creative Union.
Leslie Moon challenged us to develop our art from the words or art of another.
The photograph was taken by my daughter. It is my father's nameplate that sat
on top of his mailbox for years. He was 91 when he died and outlived almost
everyone he knew. The poem comes from the sadness that soon no one will
remember the man who spent over fifty years of his life living on a tiny piece
of real estate in rural Missouri.
Created for the Sunday Snap Shot 11/11/12 at New World Creative Union.
Leslie Moon challenged us to develop our art from the words or art of another.
The photograph was taken by my daughter. It is my father's nameplate that sat
on top of his mailbox for years. He was 91 when he died and outlived almost
everyone he knew. The poem comes from the sadness that soon no one will
remember the man who spent over fifty years of his life living on a tiny piece
of real estate in rural Missouri.
Also shared with Real Toads Open Link Monday
Comments
Monty
Hank
Poignant truth my friend - thanks