Love is an ugly word.
One that makes the mouth contort and twist round itself.
First the tongue must backbend before springing off the roof of the mouth to hover in midair.
Next, bared teeth bite the lip; scraping skin before the sweet release.
And the word floats like a promise of peace in the wake of violence.
She was born in the quiet hush of a snowstorm. Fifteen years later, there’s nothing quiet about her.
She’s as fierce as a tsunami and loud as a tornado.
Snow shrinks before the spring, and she, she is the raging river that’s left behind.
What will the memories of this past year be? Perhaps, one of the hardest years of my life.
Will they be filled with the rose colored tinge of nostalgia, like the pain of childbirth that time and contentment erase?
Or will they darken the day, coming in as sharp, stinging nettles in the surprise of their remembrance?
It’s easy to think
I’m abstract terms about “struggle”
But much harder
When your child is hundreds of miles away
And crying on the phone
There are times in life
When the world spins around you
And though you move slow
Time is relentless
And, despite your best efforts to catch it
Time falls through your fingers like sand
It’s been a minute
Established routines were lost
To time’s onslaught
Yet, the spinning slowed
And suddenly Autumn was in the air.
As summer dwindles,
I can think clearly
A breeze has begun.
Listless still, but cold and crisp
It harbors the fall.
and the end of an old cycle
But, underneath the wind
A budding laugh grows
And she awakens
Like a new spring
The intangible weight of life
Is laden with excess woes
But made light of strife
When unburdened from a closet of clothes.
Looking through photos
Brings a honeyed nostalgia
That’s soured with fear
What if I remember
Only the picture? And not
The sweetness of the moment?
Trying to make sense
Of a life in upheaval
Is like trying to
Hear a conversation between ants
You can see them, sure
See that they’re conversating
Their little antennae move
And they hustle forward with purpose
But what they said?
It’s non-sensical.
Problems are like this too
They appear, but don’t make sense
And decisions must be rushed toward
with all the purpose
of an ant on a mission
but none of the understanding.
Mild, summer evenings
Bring bubbles of joy and chaos
That float like pink clouds
Across dying grass
In a rush we talk over
One another
Not because we’re not listening
But because we’re trying
To steal extra minutes
From a waning day
Who’s jewel bright light filters through fluttering green leaves
“Hurry,” it whispers. “The day will soon sleep.”
So we spill our stories
Incomplete as the broken light
Their shards reflecting our smiles.
Hipstory 