Art inspires art; that is simply in its nature. I do not know Iaurdagnire well, but any loss is a tragedy, and any winter is cruel. So I choose(chose, eventually) to sit by him and, while doing so, composed this in his honor.
He Who Slumbers in Winter
Deer caught in himself:
Lost in winter-of-the-mind,
He mumbles verse-dreams.
They cluster around,
Like mushrooms on a drenched tree,
All feeling like friends.
Some call out to him
Or to raise deer from the rain.
Some whisper bright hopes.
He soaks in their heat,
their love. Maybe the rain stops.
Maybe soul-spring dawns.
((This has been a response to
Crackéd Smile Part II as well as another visit to
Seed's Poetry Corner))
My goodness, I'm so honoured
Thank you for the
---
Is that really u seed i