Between the tatters
and polished stone
torn and twisted
branches
wrap the sign;
gathering
the remnants
sweeping
some words
sank below
the waterline;
folded
conversation whispers
marking,
marking time;
fragments
‘All the Pretty
Little Ponies’
of what
the storm has
left behind.

– Reposted

the hum
of the heater
kicking on
under winter chill
scent of clove
cinnamon
mottled sky
cries for snow
sitting here
snuggled and reading

something out there concealed in the fog of tomorrow
a decision is waiting to be made, a change of direction,
a change of intention, some where or what is calling
from the distance, the voices are captured by the night

stepping out into the day, the hopes and dreams start
again to tug and pull at your being, being moments
like a string of pearls you can wear and bite off
one at upon a time, such faraway land horizon lines

just a smudge at first that lingers the days into
dreams of solid, dry land where the blue skies
cry softly and speak such loving words under pink
cotton sheets, caresses the hope to rise again someday

– Previously Published 2010

Artwork by: Cynthia St Charles