Her Northern Skies: a drabble

It was one of those gray days, heavy with damp and fog. She sees everything through a new filter now, slower, thick with lost dreams.

When she first moved to the French Quarter she was told the way to keep everything new and fresh was to always gaze up at the rooftops.

Now she was thousands of miles away from that time. The weight of the past caused her to stumble on the cracked pavement. As she caught herself she looked up at her northern skies. Her breath caught at the beauty and held for just a beat too long.

15 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

 

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The Movement of Time

The past
will creep up on you
when you’re not looking

and slowly
float away
when you are

5 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

Day 5 of 30 poems in 30 days for Na/GloPoWriMo2018

It’s a short one today because I wrote a longer prose piece earlier and because, you know, life.

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Lingering Rose

We create
And recreate
Ourselves
Every single day

And sometimes
Just sometimes
The heart of us
The good in us
Lingers

Like that late rose
Hanging for dear life
Onto that fragile vine

When all the other
Roses have fallen
To grace the lavender
Patiently waiting below
Creating something new
A sudden floral sculpture
That silently moves
With a breeze
Just on the edge
Of cold, a foretelling
Of the magic to come

But that happens later
Today a rose refuses
To stop blossoming
And hopes she’ll be
Remembered
For her beauty
Even when time
And circumstance
Cause her to wither
And eventually die

But not today
Today in this
Too brief moment
She is merely
A lingering rose
Trying so hard
To be beautiful

Hanging on to life
And the slight chance
She’ll catch your eye
And illicit
The smallest sigh

 

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