I know his face, I know his frown, the man who lives a few roads down. His walk didn’t change, though he grew older; his bent back and hunched shoulders.
I am fearfully made in this garden of wonders where sun dapples down upon bench and bed, upon creeper and crocus, with shoots lancing quickly up, defiant through dampened earth.
In case you’ve ever wondered what goes on in an editor’s brain, her desire to conquer syntax can cause an awful strain. A typo, a misspelling, a hyphen out of place will etch a deep, deep crease upon an editor’s face.
If You say I’m Your daughter, why do I so utterly defenseless seem to be against all storms afire in the sky, against all hurricanes that stir the sea?
That sunny day I stepped upon a shell, its bitter clam’s edge digging in my sole. I remembered why we pain, remembered well. So I dug in deeper, dug deeper still, my foot on the shard in the fleeting hole, that sunny day I stepped upon the shell.
How like the mountain, confident, the world around me stands, defiant hands upon hips, lips issuing demands. Am I the only shattered soul who’s sometimes lost her way?
Sometimes I look into my drawer of old sketches, take one out, and admire the dark lines and etches. Memories are recalled, all unique and precious.
Miracles are quiet, great as the blades of mountains that rise and score the clouds, rending greater gashes and letting light inside a world that’s gone too loud.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? How teachers often tell us that any question is a bright question, and a good question’s only job is to be asked. But kindergarten was sixteen years ago, and my teachers don’t say this anymore. We stopped talking about questions a long time ago.
I took a walk among the forest pines to be alone, away from all mankind, to listen to the sound of nothingness, and leave my doubts and worries far behind. As I wandered beneath a maple maid, I breathed into my lungs the virgin air, unspoiled as of yet, and ripe with scents of spicy hemlock with a piney flair.