Sweep

Sweep the scattered memories,
into piles of grief, shimmering
in fury, boiling rage released;
as the ripple gathers, paint the

moments clear, watch the future
rise, erupt in new born fears. So,
the days are rendered, fresh paint
brought to bear, park regrets and

leave them, surrendering all care.
As the shadow lightens, swarm
of hope reveals; crow your triumph
loudly - time will always heal.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/06/19/wordle-254/
 

Last leaf

Last leaf falling from the twiggered arms
of wintered tree, riding soulful, senseless,
down to waiting ground; dried breath of
seasons, crinkled edge and colour dying,

so do we all, follow, in slow, descending
footsteps, toward the beckoning grave,
into the bosom of deathly night, where
the sun shines brighter in that blackness,

and shuddering forgetting takes hold, to
soothe the pain of relentless years, and
to whisper again, those songs we once
knew, and could sing, but had forgotten.

Did you hear me?

Did you hear me, when I called,
from that soft spot in deep night,
half asleep, half awake, wondering
if it was all real, or merely some

imagining, and still you were there,
waiting, in the belly of expectant
day, to resume the place you had
held, in my heart and in my life?

Tender self, how you wept through
languished days, and dried your
bitter eyes in sullen darkness, hoping
that the pain would ease and heart

would once again begin to breathe,
steady, softly, slowly, as if it held
to hope, encouraged by the sudden
tweetings of awakened small birds,

struggling through dawn's embrace,
holding to the hands of angels,
whispering through neatly sown
dreams of endless possibility.

Passing years

Through passing years the self is constant,
remaining in that place of known being,
no matter what changes are wrought upon,
flesh and face and outward appearances,

feeling always as the I and Me of identity,
whether six or sixty, or girl, woman, wife,
mother, sister, daughter, friend, cousin, or
any of the names we tie to ourselves as we

pass through time as the unique being that
we were born, and do remain, even as the
costume of our material self, wears, and
softens, folding, relaxing, feeling into new

places of physical shape and form, and as
roles change, and labels become worn and
shabby, and even gender loses meanings it
once held, and we return to the place where

we began, knowing it for the first time as
self grown, fully ripened, ready for bursting
into death, broken asunder, the seeds of
futures filling, within the quietened mind.

Trap

Creep of vine to chill the trap,
hide the crack of time,
bury diverse past and hope;
tassel cold, mad mind.

Plaster full the monument,
mist the memories,
lucid is the epitaph -
grave holds who we've been.

Tawny is the sunset,
at the port of death,
born again eternally,
sufferings at rest.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/05/29/wordle-253/