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
Category: tiny stories
3 a.m.
There is beauty to her darkness
A night-time thing
Lit up
Beneath a moon strewn garden
Of tangled roses and thyme
A Cashmere Queen
Stone still, she reigns
Her once beating heart, silenced
There was another time
Of windswept words that splashed like water
To cool the burn that seared my skin
I glanced away and she was gone
Yet this is now
She stands, stone still
Words tattooed across a shoulder
“Auribus Teneo Lupum”
and everything I had ever lost, is found
tangled in roses and thyme.
~ The Boy Next Door; The Cashmere Queen
Romancing The Rain
Say it
Our souls collided
and as we picked ourselves up off the ground
we knew
this was no accident
Storms
He was my storm
I was his shelter
He, with dagger and compass
I, with torn heart
Stood stone still
A bringer of darkness
I was his light
Shipwrecked and broken
I picked his ruins
Salvaged the grit and the glass
He shivered from fever
I lit the fire
As he dreamed of ships in the night
Of sirens and seas, of pirates and plunder
I polished his pieces, held shards to light
Disturbed and addicted to Aigaios’ charm,
He swanned in the clutches of tempests
I swayed with symphony and sound
He was my storm
I was his shelter
Or was it the other way round?
~ Oceans and Storms
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
Layers
It snowed this weekend and the world became just a bit more enchanted. Layers of water and ice glistened over the street. Ribbons of snowflakes tumbled and bedecked the boughs beyond my window. Lights twinkled, evermore bright, as darkness dropped a veil atop the blanket of white. A hush settled upon the land. The world was beautiful to behold.
I’ve learned to look closely, to appreciate the layers of a life.
Everything layers. The snow that buries treasure. The cut pine boughs that house an errant spider. The branch of Winterberries that feed the birds. The words we write; the silences we keep.
Look closely.
My eyes scan the room to view a mother’s treasured sideboard. Once it stood stained and polished, waiting for Sunday. On that sacred day, she’d set out the silver and china serving dishes. Her best effort. And we would celebrate family.
Look closely.
A patina of paint and wax covers the oak sideboard. The top sanded, the edges worn. The silver stands in a cast iron urn, a twist on up cycling. The china serving bowls rarely make an appearance. I see the candle burning down. A daughter’s attempt to hold on, let go, to illuminate the night.
Look closely.
My fingers lift a gilded frame. The sepia photograph is of a woman. I trace her portrait. She is standing on a deck, leaning against a railing, looking out to sea. Dressed in her finest clothing, her fingertips hold a hat. A lady always wears a hat. She was a believer in proper etiquette. Beyond her rolls the Atlantic.
Look closely.
I recall her eyes, shades of indigo grey. Behind their depth is another layer. Doubt. I imagine her pausing, pondering, “Should I leave England?” I dust off worry and discover bravery. Carefully, I lift another layer to expose joy ~ he is waiting for her to cross an ocean. On another continent, he goes about his life, planning, constructing, beholden to a dream.
Look closely.
A certain magic fills the room. A whispered breeze kisses my forehead. I see my Grandmother; she is still beautiful. Time has gently taken its toll. Her once bright eyes have paled. They glimmer, wet pools of faded blue. Her finest dress, threadbare. A pin of pearls is elegantly placed beneath the collar of her blouse. Beside her armchair a weathered curtain hangs, the faded Irish lace rustles.
Look closely.
Everything is layered, weathered, chipped, cracked and broken. Be still. Pay attention to the forgotten. It is within glorious imperfection that we find beauty. Lift the layers gently, see beyond the cracks. Everything and everyone has a story to tell. The magic of the world works in whispers. You only need a heart that feels to see the wonder that surrounds us.
