Winter Born And Live Comments

This reads like the confession of a nun dying from over exposure to nature and the elements. I now have a severe migrane, and feel like departing to the nearest pavement where I shall rest my head on the curb, and wait for a white van to run over my neck, whereupon the blood will merrily squirt from my ears. ___________________________________________________________________ Poem for Sandra: 'Language'. By John Burnside. The deep house; the other. Names I have yet to find on the boarders of language, words between silt and swan denoting the fish pool and tree fern household that stands for the self in dreams: the mysterious, perched on the tripwire of being another's exact opposition, arrived when the city is finally still, the neighbourhood stopped, the suburb's fastidious gardens gift wrapped in dew. PS: You are a very passionate writer........

they live aglow in a warmth to a spring born is never seen. Great job. I will be reading this one again and again.

Some people enter the world to indigo skies, the sun beams on their blessed souls season after season. wow that is so beautiful so appealing

' My spirit feels spring lightness ' captures all the words.