Blanket

Blanket

They buried their mother,
Worried about the snow,
I told them, it's a blanket,
White and pure, not frigid,
To comfort her in her sleep.

They stared at me in disbelief,
Looking out toward the blizzard,
Snuggling in their own arms,
Covered by their grief, themselves,
Ready to crawl beneath its warmth.

They do not comprehend the shell,
Its energy working other places,
Fluffing up the down for their visits,
When their memories spread, to feel,
"Hope is the thing with feathers."

ampoule, February Third, TwoThousandEleven

"Emily Dickinson"

So much tenderness in this, Ampoule, such caring attentiveness.

That's sweet and it works for many in grief - not so much for others, I guess. I like the explanation very much

What sweetly solemn thoughts.

Thank you for reading and sharing your kind thoughts.

This is an intriguing piece, ampoule. The narrator tries, but fails:

Quote:

---

They stared at me in disbelief,
[...]
They do not comprehend the shell,

---

to convince others of... what? - the cycle of life? of nature's attempts to console after having taken the life of a loved one? They're thought-provoking observations.

As for the writing, I find the punctuation in the first stanza distracting, and feel a full stop would help clarify meaning in the first few lines. I also wonder if you need 'themselves' in line 9. Still, it's an interesting take on things.

Ampoule, I found nothing out of place or wanting in this poem. I found in it simple and profound truths.

One of the most difficult of comforts we are called on to provide is that when comforting a child who has lost their mother. You captured the most subtle part of that experience, those whom a child loves are few and that love is deeper than they comprehend, because a child does not contemplate love like an adult. They just love.

In S1 you could even have left punctuation out completely (not recommending this, just a fact) and the lines would have handled the meaning.

I understand "themselves" to mean like their mother they wanted the comfort of the "blanket" of snow.

Even as I read this again as I am writing, I am struck by it. It alludes to a child's security blanket, angels, and how we all grow out from our grief to realize the breadth of love.

A beautiful poem. Maybe one of your best.

I can't thank you enough for your comments. Hope, to me, is a kind of blanket, a comforter, if you will, and Emily's poem made me think of featherbeds.
Her poem is also used in a song I sing made popular by Moe Bandy. I would love to know if he is the actual writer and how the song came about.

Many Mansions

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul"
Said the homeless young man standin' there, strong against the cold
Reached into my pocket, said a penny for your poetry
But when I handed him a dollar bill he was shakin' his head at me
And he said these words to me

In my Father's house are many mansions
Though tonight some make their beds along the streets
Where I've seen lives stilled by winter's bitter chill
In my Father's house there's a mansion for me

Sleep is a silent pleasure behind doors with deadbolt locks
But it's a concrete nightmare chance you take on the streets in a cardboard box
But I know about the eye of the needle and what will come to pass
When the least of us shall be first and the first shall be last
Who's homeless now I ask?

In my Father's house are many mansions
Though tonight some make their beds along the streets
Where I've seen lives stilled by winter's bitter chill
In my father's house there's a mansion for me.