A Misty Eve

The horse nickered.

The knight clutched the reins tighter as he waited.

She glanced down from the turret window and wondered, “will he come for me?”

Thunder clapped.

The horse jerked, fearful of the coming storm as he waited.

“Should I run to him? Shall I pack my bags and ride away with him?”

Mist rolled in.

The horse danced and nickered again as he waited.

“I had better decide what to do, before he disappears into the night.”

The horse neighed.

The sound of the horses hooves grew quieter in the mist as he waited.

She threw her belongings into a bag and ran down the steps out the front door.

Gravel crunched.

The horse calmed and sighed heavily as he waited.

“Where is he? Oh, where did he go?” She screamed at the mist, watching it clear.

Lightning flashed.

The horse vanished, though the knight held tight as he waited.

She cried out. The mist had stolen him away from her. Again.

Betrayed

*This is a poem I wrote after delivering my only child to college for the first time, making us empty-nesters.*

The sun has absconded with my heart.

I am betrayed.

Prepping the introvert for a world of adulting

created an unintentional bandit, who stole my wind.

Watching her confidently walk away, alone,

salty rain shrivels my skin as clouds move in.

We can’t leave her here, amongst the unknown—

a desert of people, with no one to watch and care.

My eyes bloat as mucus runs like a river.

“Come back!” I yell, as we drive away, stormy-eyed.

Stepping back into home after the sun has gone,

a hurricane spins in my chest at the emptiness.

Will the clouds ever brighten anew in my soul?

Shield, sow, weed, water, prune, and feed that warm child.

Prepare her for an arid cold winter at college.

She sends me texts, and then when I call, talks and smiles.

I am betrayed. 

No one told me to prep myself for the tornado of pain. 

The worst part of parenthood is letting go.

Butterfly

How did the butterfly get its name?
Did it land on a stick of butter? 
Or maybe on the butter churn?
Did the first one have wings of yellow?
Or did it slide down a window easily?
Did it flutter around with pollen on its feet?

How did the butterfly get its name?
Did it steal the milk and butter? 

Photo cc0 from Pixabay.

Abyss

Most days I swim in the shallows of daily life,

“What’s for dinner;

Honey, help me please;

Oh, that looks good;

Where is this thing?”

Occasionally, Great White dives into the abyss

and pulls a glowing creature 

from the depths of my darkness

that illuminates a way for others,

be it a story, a poem, or a painting.

A Lazy Day

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And now as this northern wind blows cold

I desire to read poets and writers of old-

those scribes we can no longer blithely hire

as I sit sipping tea under a blanket by the fire.

Oh give me a pithy Shakespearean play

to digest as I dreamily drain the day away

or a hearty Dickens feast to eat

or an Austen romance, both naive and sweet…

for as the autumn and winter set in again

I feel the need to be with long buried friends.