The Road Before Us

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I think there’s pale, storm blue.

And a handprint or two. In black, but gentle, not graffiti-like.

I hear green breathing in and giving back.

Soft fibers that fell from all over. Reminders of the eyes and hands behind them.

Amber inviting throughout the space.

Smiles. Wisdom-teaching smiles, that comfort and Save. 

Hard-covered poetry within arms reach.

Wooden bowls, filled for friends, beside the window that’s right where it’s needed. 

 

Courting Anger: A Writing Prompt

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I’m encouraged to channel my anger, 

to sit with it. Take it to tea. 

“So, you’re real,” I’d say, half looking away, hoping it would not take note of me. 

“Is this about the table I bought you for Valentine’s Day?” I’m sure it would respond, looking at me in its superior way. “Because I was sick of looking at the other one,” it’d quip. 

Sigh. Seeing its sad state of insight

and a lack of rhythm or kind goal,

“I release you,” I’d murmur, feeling more self-assured, “but I’ll take back my eyes, mind and soul.” 

August Against The Red

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Only for me, look up at the black?

Count by 1000’s as you brush your jaw.  Be warm?

When you kick up your legs and close your eyes, recount to me the silver you saw?

Oh say, did you find the quiet I lost as August echoed against the red?