I looked up at the dark, dried, and ominous dead trees looming down with their bare bent, and scraggly-looking branches stretched out wide. I continued my stare with my eyes transfixed to gaze upon the contrast of the dark geometric lines against the much lighter gray-bluish-colored sky. The combination of vastly different colors gently whispering that they are, in fact, the embodiment of a beautiful, yet lifeless, winter’s day.
Sometimes I find myself missing literature that I have not and probably will not ever read. I sit in the immaterialized section of reality hidden deep within my conscious to see the book of poems—forever lost—that I will never see.
It’s an encouraging starting point, a way to help you organize, and an inspiring task crafted to lure the average writer out to do what they love best—write.
You tell me that where you’re from
a pitcher full of this on a porch
was all anyone needed.
It was a link to the past,
a connection to the future,
and it quenched
wandering mid-day thoughts.
And then it happened without warning.
Many of those same kids
now in high school or off to college
don’t come by your house anymore.
They no longer call on the phone.
glide past sounds from our television.
As you sit down and hold my hand
you unravel decades of history.
Another friend has died today.
You make the trek to show support
and say your last goodbyes.
I never see you cry.
You know that they are safe
in a place without pain or suffering.
There’s a secret sea of green
flooding a room in your home.
Where leaves sprout and stretch
their limbs in every direction.
You once resided
in the heart of the goddess
of fruitful abundance.
A house nestled
the thinning orchards
that bore life.
Green thumbs and calloused hands turn dirt into a bed of flowers.
I watch you casually sprinkle life into a seed and watch it grow.
Mother to children and mother nature you share nothing but love.
I pray that one day my hands will too learn some of what you know.