Newness Yeartub wishedness

[Cate]

to much time on my hands this morning

part of Leonard’s appeal for me is that his writing often represents a certain type of freedom.

I wouldn’t want to speculate regarding Leonard’s actual feelings or relationships though. One of the draws to putting words to paper is that you can explore different idea’s, different perspectives that may not be your own at all but maybe something you’re drawn to or what to investigate. (I think that's similar to what Violet was saying but I don't think it's limited to artists) On the weekend I spent some time leafing through my copy of the favourite game looking for something … I thought that I had saw in there the idea that some of us are hummingbirds and some of us are flowers – I don’t know if this is something that Leonard wrote (in a better fashion of course) or something that I read here or something that I just thought at the end of that book. I can’t actually find a reference like that so I’m probably mistaken … but it does seem that for some people a series of moments is what they require to remain happy and for others of us a sense of permanence and continuance is sought.

Jesus! I just remembered what Lisa's favorite game was. After a heavy snow we would go into a back yard with a few of our friends. The expanse of snow would be white and unbroken. Bertha was the spinner. You held her hands while she turned on her heels, you circled her until your feet left the ground. Then she let go and you flew over the snow. You remained still in whatever position you landed. When everyone had been flung in this fashion into the fresh snow, the beautiful part of the game began. You stood up carefully, taking great pains not to disturb the impression you had made. Now the comparisons. Of course you would have done your best to land in some crazy position, arms and legs sticking out. Then we walked away, leaving a lovely white field of blossom-like shapes with footprint stems.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LI92oDdXazg

[Violet]

In snow


I can still feel the chill of our
dining room that
morning. Its old casement windows
calling for the
wind through the trees
over breakfast.

I can see your china. Your
salt and pepper hair.


In my grief I went outside to feel
the cold air on my face and
in my chest. And,
tilting back my head, I saw
the world's dizzying white grandeur -- its
delicate fury ascending

even as all around me
there was
the downward frenzy of
its inevitable fall.

ii.

Years have passed. And still my
grief returns in
snow
like tears
that wake my cheeks
like thorns, or thoughts of
Meadowlarks
gone south
or somewhere far away
from here.

in snow
my grief returns.


v i o l e t

[Cate]

This is a wonderfully captured moment Violet - I can almost see her.

[Karren B]

This is very moving and very beautiful violet, i could almost feel the chill in the air as i read it...

Karren B
xx

[Violet]

.. thank you both for the poem appreciation, Cate and Karren..

v. xx x