Within the graying frame
of that sad, old house
ravaged by that Northwest rain
stands a reliquary for our dead joy:
the remains of an old Yuletide tree, our tree
bare-limbed, heartwood gone to rot.
A nearby window, tired of the fight, gives up
its breaking glass trumpets a blast of wind;
a last, lone ornament, an orb of delicate crystal
drops from it s branch, falls straight and slow
and shatters in a rainbow cloud,
an unseen finale to a ruinous tale
of the quiet end of our lost love.
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Author:
Fränz Müller (
Offline) - Published: December 27th, 2025 22:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
A great set of metaphors here decorate this poem of lost love. The house, the tree, the window, the ornament. All aged, dark, rotted, broken, shattered yet in this another metaphor of the rainbow a promise that it will never come again. Yet like reality where rainbows may signal an end to a storm they make false promises. A fave
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