Conflagration #Writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

Conflagration

Carnelian skies burnish the dying day just so

On the cusp of our years we awaken

Narrowed to a sliver of brilliant flame

Faithful to the fires sparked in a child’s dream

Longing for dismissed choices, second chances

A conflagration of wishes whirling, urgent

Grieve no more, my heart

Retrace your rubbled path and behold

A sacred branding of the soul

Trust that love mattered

In the final hours as

Our whispered farewells

Nudge us into ash

 

Thanks to Sue Vincent for the beautiful Thursday #Writephoto prompt. 

Peace – #Writephoto

In the end, I returned to the sanitarium. This time by choice and without the reams of commitment papers, the hustling of orderlies, and motherly coaxing of nurses. The baby-blue walls and polished linoleum shine with familiarity, and the bars feel less restrictive than I remember.

I wander the halls with a certain air of freedom, considering my state. The same doctors make rounds in their cliched white coats and spectacles. Clipboards hang on hooks bolted to metal doors, and fluorescent lights hum in group-counseling like a chorus of wasps.

Despite the harsh glare of the world inside these walls, I’d found healing here. It came with compassion, by listening to stories with a crack in my heart, by risking a touch, a tear, an act of kindness. Not toward me, but toward others. Healing wasn’t about banishing my demons, a goal that had led me astray for years. It was grounded in the audacity to love, and I’d found my courage like a tidal wave.

I pass through the locked doors into the yard, and no one minds. The heat doesn’t bother me anymore, nor the cold, though today’s a brilliant day. At the rear of the grounds, a leafy glade snuggles up against the stone wall separating us from a less forgiving world. It once was a place for smoking or sex, but cameras curbed that urge, and now a bench offers a place for solitude and reflection.

This place suits me, and I plan to stay. I could travel anywhere in the world I wish, but my calling is here. Alone on the bench, I wait.

A woman heads my way. She’s thin, her skin sallow and eyes so tired they appear bruised. One arm wraps her body, and fingers twitch on chapped lips. She doesn’t see me, but I witness a cloud of despair encasing her like a thunderhead and a soul as bright as the sun. She sits beside me, and I enclose her in my arms, sate her need for love and peace. I open a crack in her heart.

In doing so, I receive more than I give and begin to heal my last regret—that my life’s purpose manifested with such sublime clarity only upon my death.

**

Thanks to Sue Vincent for another wonderful Thursday Photo Prompt.

To Butterflies

image: Pixabay

My brother’s death-day is today, so the Independence Day holiday is always a little skewed for our family. After he was killed, I started seeing Monarch butterflies everywhere. This poem is for him.

 

To Butterflies

The harsh rend of my regrets

torn into paper shards

flutter into your scooped out hole

where heated scents of pine linger

on the cusp of summer’s silhouette

edging the cemetery’s newest stone.

 

I lay beneath the blue blossoms

white roots dangling like lace

over your tattered wishes.

I would bury my yearning

in the dark and fecund loam

soak it with my tears.

 

Death holds us lightly

life persisting with unfettered intensity

in spite of mourning

your Forget Me Nots flourish

blue petals transformed though we both will stray

to butterflies

take wing and soar.

**

I wish all my American friends a wonderful July 4th celebration. Wherever you are in the world, enjoy your families and friends and hold them tight. ❤