Writes With Pencils

fiction, memoir, essays and poetry

Tag: Love

Signs Along The Way

 

Along a pebbled shore
of sand and shells,
littered by storms of life’s injustice,
sprang a single, wild, fruited vine
that defied the lack of soil
spread its thorny shoots and leaves
sprouted clusters of tight berries,
(there’d been so little rain that season)
but black, and fully ripe
weighted with concentrated sweetness
and packed with seeds
of possibility.

Then after dormant winter
among some ancient boulders
beneath a ponderosa pine
and spreading broadleaf maple,
a golden pride of dandelions
welcomed hungry bumble bees
with their first taste of spring
and watched a sparrow
gather blades of grass
to weave a nest
in which it laid
five tiny, perfect, speckled eggs
discovered in the vines.

And as the hellebores bloomed
demurely in the shade of cedars,
we planted, you and I,
four budding twigs, the shape of baby trees
to form a living picket fence
around our loving home
and from those buds, burst blossoms
each visited by bees
that swelled throughout the summer
until we noticed on our wedding day
five perfectly imperfect apples,
our new family.

Daisy Chain

image

daisy-chain

Breakfast in Bruges

IMG_8214

It’s a good sound,
the sizzling and popping
of oil in the pan
over high heat
as the egg is freed from its shell
on its way to becoming breakfast.

The sound of time
and ease and care,
decadent in its
splayed open richness.

Even as the edges are singed—
albuminous white
the stuff of muscle and doing
grown firm and strong
from trial by fire,
the yolk remains
its perfect liquid center, golden orb.

The whole upon the plate
is as resilient
and delicate
as the human heart cracked open.

A boiled egg, in comparison
in the armor of its calcified shell
is quieter
reserved, and more demure,
even as it nourishes
the same.

Seaside Blackberries

IMG_0022 copy

Along a pebbled shore
of sand and shells
battered by storms of life’s injustice
littered with weathered wood
cast upon the beach by fickle tides
all shades of dreams diminished:
these, the skeletal remains
of a heart and home picked clean
by tragedy and loss—
springs a single, wild fruited vine
that defies the lack of soil,
spreads its thorny shoots and leaves,
and sprouts clusters of tight berries
not plump, with easy juiciness
(there’s been so little rain this season)
but fully ripe,
weighted with concentrated sweetness
and packed with seeds
of possibility.

%d bloggers like this: