All The Ones We Leave Behind

Beneath a strawberry sky
That faded into black
Breathing life into the night

We would sit and talk
Of everything, Of nothing
And of all the things between them

Skin kissed by the warm summer air
Atop a blanket of green
On a hill reaching for the stars

We spoke of dreams
That could be, That couldn't
And dreamed a few new dreams too

How fleeting were those golden months

Soon that strawberry sky
Fading into black
Became a night that never died

The air turned cold
And instead of sweet nothings on the breeze
Cold daggers met my skin

A blanket of white
Smothered the green
And drove us from that starry hill

Where we left the dreams to freeze

Phoenix: Rise

I woke up this morning
And the air smelled like it did when I was young

I got to my feet
And the floor beneath me felt more solid than it had before

I met my own eyes in the mirror
And, for the first time, I saw…


In my youth I would lay in the garden

Whispering last night’s dreams
To the flowers

I would forage mushrooms in the forest

Looking for the secret
To being taller than the trees

I dug up burrows looking for Wonderland
I dreamed of rabbits who told time
And tea parties that went on forever

Grinning cats
Mad men in silk hats
Roses dripping in blood red paint

All that stuff of pure nonsense

In all my years
There’s never been an escapism
Sweeter than my childhood fancy

Happy Birthday, Sophie.

One of the many, and often overlooked, joys of each person being the author of their own story are the moments in which we quietly write a passage in someone else's without ever knowing. About two weeks ago, you wrote one down in mine.

There’s something about…

A Lesson in Botany

Photo by Pietro Guarino on Unsplash

Across a field of dahlias
That blink eyes of deepest red
She sat atop a mossy wall
With hydrangeas 'round her head

Not a word did our Fair Lady speak
But as she wove her floral chain
She hummed a song of woes long gone
A song…

Nothing Lives Here but the Ghosts.

Phantom voices in the hall that still shout over each other in an argument long since dropped but never finished.

Echoes in the front lawn of a football being hurled to the ground in a rage that still heats the air around the spot.

A chill that settles in that bedroom by the kitchen where the worst of it still lingers.

The crunch of tires on driveway gravel as 17 brought the taste of freedom.

Seasons changed six times over and the misery crossed state lines to be finally buried under red clay.

Now this house that could never be a home is but a tomb.

Now nothing lives here but the ghosts.

Traci Powers

"I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn." -Anne Frank

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