# The Nature of Twigs and a Woman



## SilverMoon (Jun 11, 2010)

Trundle woodlands path
watching for tall hag hand twigs.

Find that chubby crystal vase
where he, suave, stuffed it with flowers,
every Friday at two O’clock in the morning,
you, tongue nailed, eyes wilted shut.

Place those wooden hands in crystal crime.

White pin lights from Christmas box,
string them in and round the bald brown brittle, found.
scissor silver, gold buntings and faintly coil.

Streamer dress nature’s fallen, forgotten 
like a six foot Fraser Fir.

Light. step back.
no small heaven you’ve made.

It, once trodden, made proud.
Glorious tender twig tree,
reflecting light, pin beams 
on glass table, stretching it's beauty.

Someone called it artwork. 
She called it Breath.

You know, living alone 
doesn’t hurt so much anymore
once you've taken 
something dead like your heart
and turned it into an angel’s act
within a crystal vase, once spoiled.


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## Galivanting (Jun 11, 2010)

Place those wooden hands in crystal crime.

love that

trees arent furry they are firry, therefore fraser fur should be fraser fir


love the ending as well

good poem, was great to read ya again... been so damned busy of late

much love.
trent.


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## SilverMoon (Jun 12, 2010)

You're right. "Fir" it is!

Glad you likes one of my favoirte lines and I really worked on that ending!

Don't work too hard! Love back atcha, Laurie


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## Foxryder (Jun 12, 2010)

Hello Laurie,

As I read the poem, an old tale came to my mind. 

The last stanza was so sweet. I might just come back for another 'guilty' read. lol

Thanks for sharing.


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## SilverMoon (Jun 12, 2010)

Thanks, Foxryder. Ha! Usually my last stanzas aren't so sweet. They're ususally a big "wake-up call". Glad you enjoyed. Sate your guilt and read over as much as you like! Laurie

P.S. True story.


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## Chesters Daughter (Jun 12, 2010)

I love this, Laurie, especially the reflection captured by the glass table, sheer brilliance. A few suggestions, I would remove the 's in woodland and the o'clock, both unnecessary. I think a comma after forgotten, it's not reading the way you want and another after box. I'd change lite to light. Glorious needs a cap. Absolutely adored "place those wooden hands in crystal crime". It's always a blessing when something considered bane can be recycled into something beautiful. Excellent work.


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## SilverMoon (Jun 12, 2010)

Hi, Lisa. Glad you liked the relection on the table. It was beautiful. And wasn't sure I'd get away with "Place those hands in crystal crime". But so far, a win. Thank you, as always, for catching my flubs. Onward to fix! Laurie


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## Gumby (Jun 12, 2010)

Love your title Laurie. These are my favorites:



> Trundle woodlands path
> watching for tall hag hand twigs.





> Place those wooden hands in crystal crime.



And then the final stanza, it is a much softer side of you coming through, I like it! 



> You know, living alone
> doesn’t hurt so much anymore
> once you've taken
> something dead like your heart
> ...


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## Reese (Jun 13, 2010)

Hi! 

Me again. Your poem starts off really well. Then it turns into something else. Something about being alone which doesn't hurt anymore.

"You know, living alone 
doesn’t hurt so much anymore
once you've taken 
something dead like your heart
and turned it into an angel’s act
within a crystal vase, once spoiled."

And...

"Light. step back.
no small heaven you’ve made.

It, once trodden, made proud."

You're right. Once you've found something you are looking for, it is no small haven. It is a BIG haven.

Just remember that no great poet made a point by "dancing around the issue." They struck at the heart of what they felt. Maybe the world hates what they say. Maybe the world laughs at what they felt. Maybe the world thought it was foolish. But...maybe the world loves it. You just don't know until you put it out there...Put it out there!


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## SilverMoon (Jun 13, 2010)

Cindy! Damn! Now people know I have a softer side. I came out behind my rusty bars! So glad you enjoyed.

Reese, thank you for your feedback. Glad you got the gist of the poem. A true story by yours only.


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