I lie snow-
sleeping, my black hair brittle
branches, mirroring roots, [can't be both branches and roots]
in winter. Glass
surrounds me, my productive fingers [too abstract?]
still. I have swallowed last summer's
bitter apple and [cliche?]
died. But inside, my hands
still work away, sewing,
coaxing; drawing from the deep
and dark, dreams unfold. A prince [needs more]
arrives to kiss me, tell me
And a second draft.
I am porcelain
encased in glass. Snow-
sleeping I lie, twisted hair dark
as roots, fertile fingers limp
and robbed of rose-buds.
I have swallowed last summer's
green and acrid apple.
But inside, ghost hands
still work, sewing, furrowing,
coaxing, and drawing from the deep
and dark. Dreams unravel, until
inside this case, I am
teeming and ripe. The bitter seed
died, and I grew
a golden orchard.
A prince arrives to kiss, to
prune, to tell me
Wake up! Spring
Which version do you like better? Why? What would you suggest as a title?
Constructive criticism? Please and thank you.