Small Encounter

You can find me following
my footprints on the snow,
picking white stars
from pine branches.

If you can't find me there,
touch what I touched,
dusty imprints on crystal goblet
will merge in small encounter
as silence kneels between us.

Tonight, the moon refracts
from white-hooded trees;
it beams smiles on photos,
hearts meet in framed memories.

Paula Grenside's Questions:

The poem aims at transferring the "small encounters" of lovers, even though they are separated. Does it work?

Any suggestions?

Thank you.

Not For Trash

You wear your pain, father, 
on your skin, stretched 
and shabby as an ice-bag 
on the hospital shelf, where 
occasional glances are cast to see
when you'll be done for trash. 
My hands tend you as words stagger 
at my throat, entangle in salty knots. 
Your head, a rock I hold, 
rough hair, raw silk I comb, 
I wet your lips, all smiles dried up, 
your neck, a canulated track 
to a body, embarassment of decay. 
Steel-gowned doctors, sisters pop in,
with a hurry they don't hide, in need 
of shelves for less worn out bags. 
Your eyes open, wrap me in blue, 
a moment  as I watch my slack shadow 
nailed by last flickers of your eyelashes.

Paula Grenside's Questions:

Does the poem succeed in conveying the father's legacy to his daughter?

Is the contrast between  attitudes in some hospitals and the dignity of human beings effective?

Thank you.