Wednesday, February 13, 2013


We said, we'd like to bathe in the
                                 blue, blue
swim with dolphins, see the coral.  So we
we danced,
apricot cordalyne lining a path
for the future,
opened, alone
                                    a bottle of
                                       bubbly, bitter and sweet, under
the highest, hugest moon.
Were there clues beneath our feet?  Gathering in our
 toes?   Were there rumors in the wind?  Were the waves speaking,
                                                                                               keeping time with our throbbing?  Next day, I wore a plume  of posy,
                                                pretended there
was luck in this floral trimming.  That what
we had was rare.

What one incident, word, glance, plucked the hope embedded
                in those
                           easy terms?  Or does joy
                                                    die slowly, June always conceding to an eventual, stipulation of snow?

The thread
in the cross stitch
                           hanging your grandmother
                                gave us held up when we
                                                 did not.  Just a ball dropped;
                                                        of many.  So the knowledge sits tucked
beneath my belt, a threat of the dry throat confession I can't choke
                                                            out and the assembled
court of small town cynics pronounce my guilt of loss.

Sunday Whirl


  1. There cannot be many that are not guilty of loss. Sometimes it is an unbearable burden softened only by the simplest of memories.

  2. I recognise the Wordle here - brilliantly woven into your words. Excellent.

    Anna :o]

    PS It might benefit you to get rid of word verification as I must 'try again' and this often puts people of continuing. Fingers crossed for second attempt!