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Post by mfwilkie on Mar 19, 2009 0:44:13 GMT -5
when the sun goes down
beach sand grows cold—
so does the skin on rocks
that lead to the road
what's left of warm air
on streets that head home,
white tiles on the floor,
flannel sheets with their
ghost.
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Ken_Nye
EP 500 Posts Plus
EP Word Master and Published Member
Posts: 646
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Post by Ken_Nye on Apr 29, 2009 1:25:00 GMT -5
Mag, flannel sheets are, to me, warm, so the end of this piece doesn't work for me. I can follow the cooling of your world until the flannel sheets.
K.
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Post by mfwilkie on Apr 29, 2009 1:56:09 GMT -5
Doesn't that depend on whether or not you have the heat on, Ken?  Mags |
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Ken_Nye
EP 500 Posts Plus
EP Word Master and Published Member
Posts: 646
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Post by Ken_Nye on Apr 29, 2009 7:16:02 GMT -5
Well, there is something to that. Got to admit it. But how about silken sheets? When we've crawled into a flannel lined bed there are always sounds of gratitiude for the coziness of the flannel. Whereas, when we've crawled into a winter bed lined with silk or, worse yet, ironed linen, there are exclamations off cold and discomfort. So I'll stick with my comment. But it's your poem, and you know whether or not the bedroom will have the heat up.
It's a beautiful morning up here. Cold, kind of. But spring is definitetly moving this way.
Ken
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Post by Marion Poirier on Apr 29, 2009 8:54:32 GMT -5
Maggie,
Interesting poem and concept.
My suggestion is cotton sheets.
Nice work!
Marion
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Post by mfwilkie on Apr 30, 2009 0:14:21 GMT -5
I like the sound of cotton sheets, M.
Thanks to the both of you.
Maggie
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