A ray of light piercing
the storm clouds
invokes thoughts of spring
and long days of summer;
a growing season
when I can, at last
lift my head
from the ashes.
Tag: hope
Clarity
dark night is a pleasure
when knowing its measure
in the surety of sunrise
dangers — not as surmised
Words for a Rainy Day
As long
as you live
there exists
possibilities
By the Roots
Upon the fallow field
Against the farmer’s reason
An insistent blade of grass
Shooting out of season
“What folly, what stupidity,”
Said the farmer with his hoe
And promptly dug a hole
Where the blade did grow
And through that winter, it remained
A dark stain unwashed by rain
Never covered by a gentle snow
Never graced by the sun’s sweet glow
An empty hole where a blade did grow
And in the spring, that farmer found
And reaped what he had sowed;
A whole field, spot and all,
Insistent, fallow
Hope as a Game of Chance
rather than sending
one fleeting hope
at a time
perhaps it’s wiser
for a great leap
of faith
then the cynics
might say:
at least, we’ll beat the odds
Lifeline
so few understand
the illumination of a dash of color
when the whole world feels gray
Tree in Fog
Leafless hands
Against winter sky
Reach for sun
[Fiction] Baby Talk
Constantine trotted by Sarah’s side like a shadow even when the sun wasn’t out. At first, the new baby brother had been a nuisance, a pest, on the same level as spiders and mosquitos to all fourteen-year-old girls, until he started talking.
Sarah listened as she never listened to anyone else, because when Constantine spoke it was not like other people speaking, but music. Soft rising. Sly falling. His toddler’s babble was possibility: untamed, uninformed, and incomplete.
She pressed her fingers against his cupid’s bow. Wet and slick with saliva, it was hungry for more than a bottle. She wrapped him in her thin arms, the ones her girlfriends taunted as anorexic at school, and found a surprising strength welling deep inside her.
She lifted a lullaby, a wonder, as Constantine sang.
Funeral Flower
The heart of a chrysanthemum
Is a gold sun that promises life
Even as it laments the departed
Birdsong
Sweet mute bird.
The cold season
Stays your tongue
And dampens
The fluttering
In your chest.
Yet you greet each day
With anticipation —
Awaiting
That first performance.