Hawthorn Widow
BREW Poetry Award Nominee - Secondary School Category / by The Contributing Writer / 355 views
- Listing ID: 36320
- Poetry Author's Name: Ethan Xie Yize
- Name of Educational Institution: BASIS International School of Guangzhou
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Poem:
Hawthorn Widow
The sun’s going down, slow as a sigh.
She’s there, by the hawthorn.
Not standing—lingering.
Shoes scuffed.
Thorns snag on her glove.
She tugs,
real gentle.
Says, soft,
to no one,
real soft, real dainty.
“These thorns. He used to laugh—
said they loved me more than he did.”
The blooms past their best.
Faint, like perfume past age.
She bends down,
picks up her dress,
and sniffs all the whiff.
Eyes close.
For a second,
her mouth twitches—
almost a smile.
I saw them,
once, here,
right there.
He plucked a bloom,
pricked his thumb.
Blood on white.
She fussed,
dabbed it with her handkerchief.
He said, “Worth it.”
Now the scarf’s in her pocket, I bet.
Frayed at the edges, same as her cuffs.
Like skin, when you’ve cried too much.
No wind.
Her shadow’s thin,
like it might blow away.
But she stays.
She leaves, finally.
Doesn’t look back.
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Innocent and altogether lovely.
A masterpiece
Awesome poem
Reading this felt like sitting on a quiet bench nearby, just watching—no rush, no noise, just her and that hawthorn. The way you wrote the thorns snagging her glove, how she tugs “real gentle” instead of yanking… it’s those small, careful moves that make her feel alive, like someone who’s still learning to be soft with the world after loss. And that line about the blooms being “faint, like perfume past age”? I could almost smell it—something sweet but worn, like a sweater he used to wear. When she closes her eyes and her mouth twitches? I held my breath a little, like I didn’t want to break that second for her. This isn’t just a poem; it’s a little piece of a life, and it’s so tender it hurts (in the best way).
This hit me because it’s all the things no one says out loud about grief—the scuffed shoes, the frayed cuffs, the scarf she still keeps even though it’s worn. You didn’t make her cry or scream; you made her linger. That’s the part that feels real—grief isn’t always big sobs, it’s standing by a tree where you used to be happy, talking to thorns like they’ll pass a message along. And that memory of him pricking his thumb? Blood on white, her fussing, him saying “Worth it”? It’s so specific, like I was there too, watching them laugh. When she leaves without looking back? I wanted to tell her it’s okay to glance over—but then I realized, she doesn’t need to. She’s carrying him in the small stuff, and that’s enough. This is beautiful, and so human.
I kept replaying little lines in my head after reading this—“slow as a sigh,” “tugs, real gentle,” “faint like perfume past age.” They’re not flashy, but they stick, like bits of a memory you can almost touch. The way you contrast her thin shadow (like it might blow away) with how she stays? That’s the heart of it—grief makes you feel fragile, but it also makes you hold on tighter to the places that matter. And the scarf? Frayed like her cuffs, like “skin when you’ve cried too much”? I’ve had things like that—old, worn things that don’t work right anymore but you can’t let go. When she sniffs the blooms, eyes closed? It’s like she’s trying to breathe in a moment she can’t get back, and it’s so quiet and brave. This piece doesn’t just tell a story—it lets you feel it, right down to your bones.
This made my chest feel soft, like I’d stumbled on a secret I wasn’t meant to hear—but in the best way. The little, slow things get me most: how she sniffs the faded blooms like they’re a letter he left, how her shadow’s thin “like it might blow away,” even the frayed scarf hidden in her pocket. That memory of him pricking his thumb and saying “Worth it”? It’s not big or loud, but it’s the kind of line that stays with you—like remembering a joke someone used to tell, or the way they’d laugh at their own mistakes. And when her mouth twitches, almost a smile? That’s the heart of it, isn’t it? Grief doesn’t erase the sweet parts, just tucks them close. You didn’t rush any of it, and that’s what makes it feel so true—like I really saw her there, with the hawthorn.
This piece hit me right in the quiet, aching spots—those little, unspoken details that feel more real than any loud grief ever could. The way she lingers (not just stands) by the hawthorn, tugs at the thorns *real gentle*, says his line soft to no one… it’s like I’m right there, watching her hold onto the smallest pieces of him.
That memory of them—him pricking his thumb, her fussing, him saying “Worth it”—feels so vivid, like a snapshot I might have stumbled on once. And the little touches? The frayed scarf in her pocket, her scuffed shoes, the blooms “faint like perfume past age”—they don’t shout “sadness” so much as *linger* with it, same as she does. When her mouth twitches, almost a smile? That’s the part that got me—grief isn’t just tears, it’s those tiny, sharp flashes of how much you loved someone, even when they’re gone.
You didn’t overexplain a thing, and that’s why it works. It’s quiet, it’s human, it’s the kind of moment that sticks with you long after you read it. Beautiful work.