Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Fimbul winter

It’s coming. They say they counted
the stars and our own ominous sun
and it is negligent.
They say they turned every which way
but wherever they went
breaths stiffened,
hearts froze, and love lay absent
by the side of the road.

It’s coming. And perhaps it’ll leave us
a few gossamer mornings, our
thoughts spread out like silk on the bed.
You’ll read the news without care,
I’ll try to fix the last broken strands
of a loom I’ll never see finished.
Our kiss will be quiet, our
fingers will weave whatever
strength we have left.

It’s coming. Nothing will be different
and yet in your step you will know.
You’ll think of me. And I will
raise my head from my paper or
those numbers that never made sense
and I will feel the world give way
without you and from my gut
I will howl like a wolf in winter.
MillaMilla van der Have (1975) wrote her first poem at 16, during a physics class. She has been writing ever since. In 2013 one of her short stories won a New Millennium Fiction Award. Milla lives and works in Utrecht, The Netherlands. Her work has appeared in Bare Hands Poetry, The Lindenwood Review and Dressing Room Poetry Journal. Her website is here.

Categories: Poetry

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1 reply

  1. Heartbreaking end…especially love
    “Our kiss will be quiet, our
    fingers will weave whatever
    strength we have left.”
    Lovely writing.

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