|
To Home
Near the house on the farm,
the thistle grows thick
and free.
Each time I go to step
past the rocky ledge,
I can’t.
This is where the old oak,
like a crippled hand,
grows tall.
Through airy spring, the blood
of tired ones runs
like dust.
I do not step forward,
however sweet berries
grow among the Dead Thorn.
I do not step forward,
however possessed the
wind sings in thistledown.
I do not stir a thing
because this is where
the old oak
stands.
N. L. Hoffman remembers sitting in his bedroom at home by the window and being able to
see the hospital where he was born. A lifelong resident of Poughkeepsie, New York, he is nineteen now.
Currently studying English, German, and Russian at Vassar College, he's striving to establish his
writing, as well as his fresh personality in a very big, very competetive world. He writes merely
for the liberation -
the thrill of having chipped away at the wall of misunderstanding that regrettably exists between us all.
Email: N. L. Hoffman
Return to Table of Contents
|
