Leaves half dead brown half living green dappled with the gold of hope, sparkling, dangle from the tree as if life clutched within holds a secret on this wonderful warm winter afternoon— masquerading as a spring day-- joyous—these leaves reflecting light like crystals of a fancy chandelier-- yet the leaves, fragile as they are, will fall upon the forest floor with tomorrow’s cold winds which they cannot withstand and my heart, like the leaves— not green enough to withstand assaulting winter but today, today— chooses to clutch at the hope in this masquerade of spring.
Image courtesy of TheSpruce.com
She walks to the end
of dark uncurling days
at the edge of the earth,
witnesses the new day
She’d give it to herself
could it be contained,
arranged within some vase,
held within her hands,
that cannot hold
such flowering strength.
She breathes in hope,
taking it deep into her lungs
where oxygen mingles
with blood and becomes one—
a seed took root in the moment
as all things familiar to her die.
Against a sky of perfect blue
Containing strains of purest white,
My heart and soul,
A kite woven,
Finally, after all the years,
Unafraid of the heights
Attained on these winds.
My hope no longer dwells within
A fortress built
Of scars or fears
That others would have me hear.
The silk of waking
To dreams yet dreamed
Linger in the sky
Adrift in gray clouds
Carrying visions of possibilities
That yet may be
Storm clouds rode in
Upon a sky soaked in sunset red.
Wildflowers bowed their heads
Down on either side
As I drove by
Smiling, thinking of all things new.
Once home, I stood in the yard,
Arms akimbo, welcoming the new—
What the storm, the wind, the rains
As gently as their nature could—
All things new, clean, green
The sun returns
In an earnestness
We have not seen in months.
Not yet does the earth send warmth
Enough to climb through the soles of our feet–
Not yet warmth enough to creep onward up our legs,
Stretching, reaching toward our souls,
Where I carry the wish I have of you
One day, perhaps—
Perhaps, I may find the courage to grasp
In an aching, aging hand the bone to break
And set loose the wish I have of you.
Syrup still dripping from your fingertips,
you try to gift me the sugared dreams
you have stolen away
from a pearlescent candied sky.
I long to taste such dreams
of sweetened rest.
Written in response to Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge on
Drift in purpose, direction,
Resolve in question.
Telling myself on repeat
I’ve no need, no want
Of soft skin against mine.
To feel another’s heart beat
Against my chest.
Though I remember,
Though I can still imagine,
When I close my eyes
What it is
To close my hand round the soft hand of another,
To fall asleep embracing—entwined, entangled,
To wake and smell sleep warmed skin,
To touch and take and give and kiss
Before coffee should touch my lips.
Such hunger is not a thing I allow myself to taste,
The risk too rich, too great to let it touch upon the tongue.
I am not young enough for a taste of what
Should bring me to my knees—
Of what I imagine
That she’d taste like memory.
My hope is
Once a verdant green
Of fresh, newborn spring.
Now evolved into this chilly thing–
Brown, dried husks,
A few barely clinging
To a tree in late autumn.
Seems something, someone
Sucked the hope out,
Fed on it as if it were life’s blood,
And I am left drained, a leftover hull
Of what once was. But I go on
As if all is the same and nothing
Is gone. A tree in winter,
Hoping enough green
Is left to grow, to live in spring.