wisps and whispers
One day, there will be nothing more
than reflections and smoke–
wisps of what is and what was
and nothing there to foreshadow
what will be.
No evidence of the inevitable,
though inevitable it is,
for even when it seems impossible,
there always will be.
Photo by Miriam Espacio from Pexels
anyway
coffee on table.
empty mug that rests on a coaster.
beside it sits calendar,
the top of a stack that also contains journal and notebook.
rubber band next to that,
its first purpose no longer necessary,
now awaiting a new one.
there is also speaker
and laptop
and hand writing this message
in pencil on creamy white paper
in yet another notebook.
Anyway, I hope you’re doing well.
Photo by Angela Roma from Pexels
on growth and beauty
A tree starts young as just a seed
to grows its roots and trunk, it needs
water, air, and light from Sol,
so with a wish, I dig a hole,
and place the seed down deep inside,
cover with dirt and hopes, then I
walk away. The seed stays in the ground.
In days or weeks, it is bound
to poke its green head from the earth
soon to fill mankind with mirth
for all who gather surely know
the tree will grow and grow and grow
and one day offer fruit to eat.
They’ll taste the citrus, tart and sweet.
But interest lost–it takes too long
to germinate, grow big and strong
enough for branches to hold the fruit
the impatient one had once pursued.
Still slowly, carefully, it grows tall.
It’s remembered to have started small,
but now I barely can believe
the growth it made since I did leave
it all alone there in the soil.
The tree itself did yearn and toil
knowing that one day it could be
a beautiful flowering, fruiting tree.
So there it stands when I come back
with growing branches, hues brown and black
when it is darkened by the rain,
the wet that helped it to remain
Strong and healthy while I was gone
through all those dusks and all those dawns.
It’s not quite ready to flower yet,
But one day soon, I can bet
’cause the world has thus far taken care
of the seed I’d planted there.
So I’ll trust nature to run its course–
that beautiful self-sufficient force.
This tree right here to me has shown
that noticed or not we all have grown
and more than that, we’ll one day see
ourselves with branches flowering.
Though trees and man will surely die,
the citrus will bloom, and (maybe, just maybe) so will I.
Photo by Kindel Media from Pexels
I still choose to write of them.
The sunrise is unviewable from this position.
The sunset, too.
Too much crowding of buildings and trees
to witness Sol complete his daily routine.
I don’t often spy Luna either,
with her choosing to cross the sky
after all the blinds have been closed.
This whole dance between star-crossed lovers
hidden from my view,
partially by my choice
and partially by my circumstance.
I don’t know why I choose to still write of them
when I can’t see them.
Maybe it’s because I know they’re still there.
Maybe it’s because I want them to be.
Photo by Ninette June from Pexels
on change
Summer lifts her head
revealing flushed cheeks and bruised lips.
She’s slowly falling apart to be replaced
by a much colder, duller version of herself–
her vibrant greens being replaced
by reds and oranges, the dying evidence of her fiery, passionate sparks,
but mostly by browns, evidence of the light and life
fading from her eyes.
Time says that it is long past time
to tell her goodbye,
rest well,
see you next year.
Photo by rikka ameboshi from Pexels
a destination, a question
He spreads out a map between them on the table of the diner, then smooths it with a flat palm. He hovers his pointer finger of the map, moving it around in circles, the gestural equivalent of a filler word. Finally, he presses his finger onto the paper. A destination. He raises an eyebrow. A question.
Staring at his eyes rather than the map, she sips her black coffee, just as bitter as she is inside.
Where on this map was he a year ago, a month ago, a week ago? He was with her yesterday, but even then, his mind was far away.
His eyes intensify. The question has remained unanswered for too long.
She drops her gaze and looks at the paper for the first time. At the tip of his nail is a tiny town a few hours’ trek away, just off the highway–a place she had never once considered going.
She has never been much of a follower, and she’s never been much of a risk-taker either, preferring to forge her own path exactly where she is. The oxymoron of that has never been lost on her, but she likes it that way. He was always a wrench in that oxymoron, one that was usually at a far enough distance that she could ignore it.
But not right now. Not while he is right here.
He is going to that destination at the end of his pointer finger no matter what she does. She knows that. Among all the choices she has, making him stay is not one of them. She’ll have to choose something else, make a compromise that she doesn’t want to make.
She raises her head so that her eyes meet his again as she gives a forced smile and nods.
Photo by Negative Space from Pexels
I did not.
You say that I turned city tap
into Carbernet Sauvignon
while you were drinking well water
from a dirty faucet.
I assure you that you have this story wrong.
I am not magical,
I am not gifted,
and I am not divine.
Continue reading “A Full-Bodied Red”on beauty and happiness
To Whom It May Concern:
I don’t know if I have something to say so much as I just wanted an excuse to show that featured image.
The website Pexels has become my favorite free-to-use image site, possibly because of its front page. (Side note: I also like Pixabay and Unsplash if I can’t find what I’m looking for on Pexels.).
On that front page of Pexels, some number of curators have selected several images that users have uploaded to the site and ordered those pictures so that the page appears to be like a color gradient. As I scroll through, I admire that pretty gradient, and I save any of the pictures that really speak to me by clicking on the little heart icons. Which is to say that I save most of the pictures I see there because I am truly in awe of the job that they do curating as well as the level of talent of people who upload images to the site.
Continue reading “Free to Use Images and Inspiration: Pen Pal Letter #3”on our hurried way
We pass by
slowly,
daily,
on our hurried way
to here or to there
or to everywhere.
Eyes rise and meet
lingering,
longing,
then flitting back
to the ground
to gaze at the sidewalk.
Voices speak
muttering,
mumbling
a cautious “Hello”
to which we do not expect
a response.
Strangers at midday,
stuck inside our own minds
as we pass by
and never think
to stop.
Photo by Brett Sayles from Pexels
on fear
Don’t give me a ladder,
for I will refuse to climb it,
but as for falling,
I will do that any chance I get.
Photo by Ksenia Chernaya from Pexels
The Yellow Brick Ave 