Second Star

You are a dose of agelessness

A place where time stands still

My second star to the right

A slice of Neverland

And when doubt tore my wings

Leaving me stranded on the edge of imagination

You reached back and said, “Roadtrip.”

 

~ Letters Tied With Ribbon

The sultry voice of a woman filled the small room. Notes rose, hit the ceiling, dropped. Words teased and enchanted as they wrapped humanity. “The High Priestess of Soul” punched the tiny kitchen with passion and spirit, nestled herself into every corner, tucked inside each drawer.

Absorbed in the magic, he forgot last night, forgot time. The notes brought dignity into the room. He bowed, gripped the counter and let his troubles slip off bone.

~ Maybe Love Will Save Us

The Dream Room

It’s All Temporary

Close your eyes, darlin’

Rest your weary head

Choose the slow lane to the middle of night

Collect your stars and far away things

Linger in the moments

Til I edge you back to dawn

~ Grace Writes

A Moment

Their moments were fleeting; at times, raw. This, was that moment.

“Annie?”

She giggled. A child’s head popped up from beneath the table. His daughter, a sprite of girl straightened and met his stare. A paper doll dangled from her fingertips. The style of  doll was familiar; he knew Jacqueline had sketched it, had painted in the model like features and cut it to form.

“I didn’t see you,” he laughed. “How long have you been here?”

Annie shrugged.

She was his light beam; her smile tamed darkness.

In that moment she charmed him. Feet planted, Annie straightened and dared: stay. Her ruffled blonde hair, wide bangs cut short, and one off- centered, green eye, opened wide; he had noticed her tricks.

Instantly, Annie lowered her head and the spell was broken.

He crouched beside her. Gently, his fingertips smoothed the tussled strands of her hair into place. He cupped her dimpled chin and waited for her to look up. When she did, he traced the freckled path along her cheekbone. Surgical tape stuck to the skin above her left eyebrow. One edge of the tape had lifted. Carefully, his fingertip pressed the errant corner into place. He knew she hated the eye patch, always picked at the edges to get free of the gauze covering.

He lingered in that moment. She was his black cat bone, his good luck charm.

 

 

Poetic Prose

“His Plymouth navigated home on the blade edge of moonlight, that fine line before the razor-sharp steel slices through darkness, revealing the thin leaf of dawn.”

Grace Writes