The Words of Judith K. Witherow
	Poetry
	WITHER LOVE Deep in the ground the bulbs are planted for Spring’s growth. Nothing will sprout unless it undergoes a harsh Winter freeze. Does this coldness encase you also? Will the thawing of your feelings imitate the process, and deny a rebirth? Has time withered what once was ripe amidst the thrusting of new found feelings? Leaving barren flesh unfulfilled in dark decay. pity the poet Just one of those drift days Where the tongue is one beat Behind the brain. Commonplace things and people Are blurred by spider web shrouds. Pity the poet.     I’d Take You Back Staring out the window hidden by grimy panes shielding myself from prying/spying eyes. Lost love observers furtively seek a replay of unspeakable pain. Hallways and walls weep with gray/black moldy despair. Stepping backwards my foot catches on the well worn carpeting. How many miles of pacing does it take to lay bare the warped wood beneath my stumbling/humbled feet?      Quietus The mountains were awaiting me exactly as I believed they would. Neither condemning nor approving, knowing that surface is surface. Waiting for the unveiling of underneath, for feelings long forgotten to spill out. An echo to careen across the tree tops repeated in unremitting certainty. I'm home, I'm home for good; what others forsake nature reclaims.   birthday blue another year. time again for cheer. calls, cards and gifts keep arriving. i promise that i’ll stay grounded. these occasions always unnerve me, but this year will be different. the phone non-stop reminds me of a pledge made so casually. one caller asks if her partner called, and did she seem a bit depressed? laughingly, I say that would be quite a bit rude. she replies, I wish her happiness would be used while sitting here talking just to me. PLAY IT MY WAY Woe, Lord, here comes that searing, soaking sadness again. Great puddles of teardrops do the Texas two-step out the door and cascade down the salt pocked sidewalk. Someone bring me ALL those Etheridge, Sainte-Marie and k.d. lang CD's. I need walking, wailing, sitting, sobbing ballads to match my mood. Nothing lite could possibly ease or set me free. These Shamans help me ponder living, dying, or merely wanting to survive your leaving.
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