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I-43
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So, this is the day I die.
The moment's fruition unfolds nurturing silence.
I find myself lying, as if with Nickolai Rostov.
He on his grass and I on my asphalt.
Death searches us out in our own place.
He finding glory in his bright sky,
And I, peace in a silent din.
But that is still before me.
Just now the Sun saught me out,
She shines on everyone,
But it was meant for me alone.
I smile as her warmth caresses me.
I smile again because I have smiled.
I always imagined that I would die in the John Muir Woods
Overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge,
Not here on a Wisconsin freeway,
Neither of which jibes with my sureness that I would drown.
I never expected the bagpipes either.
That is a bit much.
The Sun, as a young girl, is afraid of the dark,
Which is why she doesn't come out at night.
But tonight, knowing I die,
She lingered to give me one last caress.
As the traffic piles up behind me
I see the people rubbernecking,
Morbidly curious; slowing down to see,
Cursing me for making them late to the recital.
Very few take the lesson.
Sorry folks, I can only give it once.
The poem, overall, is excellent . . . but . . . the metaphor of the sun as a young girl is one of the most strategically brilliant comparisons I have ever read (and I have never read the sun feminized) in over 30 years of reading poetry. I tip my hat to you.
Starward
I know that I'm certainly not an experienced critic of poetry, and since you've critiqued my own work you can tell that I'm merely an amateur in the world of poetry and song writing. Even so, I still must say that I loved this poem. I read it over twice just to take it all in and make sure I didn't miss any of it. Thanks for the reviews of my work and I hope that I can improve my writing and become a better poet such as you.