For what dies before it’s born

for all of us

My country is cold,
with knifed mountains
that tear the old lace of saudade,
that word born
where the Mediterranean kisses
the southern coast of Europe;

as far from where I stand
as you are.  These feelings
die in the northeast, cannot live
where we once burned magic
and scrubbed passion raw
with lye soap:  Puritan country,
uncompromising, plain,
unvarnished, severing ties
is where I live, far from you.

You, heat-drowned, lost in patterns
of days I will never know,
and nights dreaming
no longer of me but what is possible.

Advertisements

About Susan L Daniels

I am a firm believer that politics are personal, that faith is expressed through action, and that life is something that must be loved and lived authentically--or why bother with any of it?
This entry was posted in New Free Verse and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

11 Responses to For what dies before it’s born

  1. Alice Keys says:

    Dang, Girl. This is fine stuff.

    I think you’re channeling my new life. I spent the afternoon soaking up the rays on the front patio after a picnic with the kids at the park and a quick pass by the beach where the Mediterranean kisses the coast of Europe.

    Saudade (longing) brought me here at last.

    Alice

  2. Patricia Chenai Nyandoro says:

    Saudade , the word born where the Mediterranean kisses the southern coast of Europe.. Very clever! Love how you put it..

  3. BEAUTIFUL rapturous poetry Susan! We should dress in this energy! THAT’S why we read you ! Faithfully Debbie

Comments are closed.