The sky is powdered crushed rose petals long expired.
Your hands were like the snow
As your eyes were like the snowfall
So brilliant cold and beautiful
And these hands which were always like fire
As these eyes were always like firefall
So wished that they could warm you
And see you be a river
I miss you
I whisper your
name under my breath
And wonder if you still hold my heart
Like an unfolded letter
In your forest scented hands
drum roll please
this is the morning of the battle
this is the morning of bloodshed and courage and grit
this is the morning of glory and heartache and victory in our eyes
this is the day we cannot quit
drum roll please
this is the morning we must press on
this is the morning we will be either destruction or beauty:
this is the morning we will choose to be either beautiful or destroyed.
this is the day we must continue through the pain and disorienting fog
because this is the morning that tests our souls
this is the day we will see God
you softly melt the worry
from the space between my shoulder blades
and in its place breathe perfect peace
and tender mercies
I don’t think I’ll ever get over
This organic crush
I have on the rhythms
Of gourd shakers.
Check out this creative-nonfiction photo-journal post of mine. It’s about a girl and a thousand books:)
Saturday afternoon. No one’s here.
Only a girl and a thousand books.
No one is here…no one sees her as she runs through the book-lined cases.
No one observes the laughter.
No one sees her peering through the shelves
like a small child
peering into a secret world
peering into fantasy.
No one comes down the steps into the basement.
No one comes down the steps into the thick yet subtle
waters of old-bound hardbacks, fresh new paperbacks.
In the place without sound
No one but the girl hears the words shout.
No one but the girl walks through and touches the empty spaces.
Not all of her finds them beautiful
Not all of her finds them tragic.
A girl peers through the book-lined cases
Surrounded by laughter, shouting words, fantasy,
Surrounded by waters of old-bound hardbacks, fresh new paperbacks,
Surrounded by the empty spaces – beautiful…
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as a swallow may I love Thee
as a swallow may I trust
as a swallow may I count Thee
my chief Joy and my Hush
All of our shoes have laces
All of our thoughts have fears
All of our clothes have faces
We’ve been hiding in them for years.
What a tender, sacred thing: