It was god-awful. I will consider expanding this, I think I agree that it seems to flit too feverishly from image to image.

Thank you, this is a compressed revision of a poem that was much longer. Maybe it needs that breathing space between images to be restored

The very beginning of this poem is giving me Frost energy. Set your poem apart from his divergent yellow wood!

Otherwise, I don’t know, I feel like we readers are flitting too fast through these images. I just about like them all in isolation, but I can’t really hold onto any of them as they are (compiled)—the parataxis is overwrought for me. I see the shattered glass at the end is meant to show that this is purposeful, all these images fractured and brought to the floor, but I’m still patently lost on the way there.

I really like this, it successfully captures the feeling of returning somewhere that is full of memories. Full of feeling and also very lonely.

Absolutely beautiful. You know what it reminds me of? T.S. Elliot's the Wasteland, especially the first stanza:

  
"  April is the cruellest month, breeding  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing  
Memory and desire, stirring  
Dull roots with spring rain.  
Winter kept us warm, covering  
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding  
A little life with dried tubers. "  


You have talent, my friend. I would love to see what more you have in store.


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very beautiful language, I’m sure the words are happy that they’ve been put together like this :)

I don’t agree with the comment that says it rushes through the images, I really like it , it has good rhythm and flow and easily took me away to what you were describing and feeling. Nice one

I walk along the path we once carried  
stuck to our boots in clumps, and once more  
it clutches my legs. Where it stops, I look  
for the un-fused jaws of daffodils,  
hidden in the grass we walked barefoot  
when the blades were new. That threadbare  
yellow cardigan, the armpit gaped,  
crushed ice for eyes; a crystal, melted,  
washed the eyebrow pencil from the mole  
you coloured in. A lacquered smile,  
the line drawn tight on crossbow lips.  
Daffodils below a cloudless sky.  
I would bury them in permafrost,  
unborn inside their bulbs, tiny spines  
and mantis claws inside, folded forever,  
but spring unfurls fresh insect wings;  
ice on the lake is splintered by thrown sticks,  
and children holler at the sound it makes --  
a stained glass window, delicately ruined.  

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w10val/halflight/igj33cs

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/w19fjm/that_which_dreams/igj4rs3

The Sharp End Of Yellow