by Bill Yarrow
like a flame that sinks down among the late decaying embers
like a floating sea-bird on the long heaves and swells of sound
like the phantasmagoric play of the northern lights
like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun
like a black shadow emerging into sunshine
like ether out of a phial
like a tuft of green moss on a crumbling wall
like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound
like the stroke of sudden death
like the dome of an immense lamp
like blades of grass at the sweep of the scythe
like a line of cliffs against a tempestuous tide
like a shapeless piece of driftwood tossed ashore
with the initials of a name upon it
like the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy
like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside and can no longer
make itself seen or felt
All rights reserved.
Similes all taken from "The Scarlet Letter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
This poem appeared in Olentangy Review. Thank you, Darryl; and Melissa Price.