When It Died


It was a sad day when It died.

They gathered around the carcass. Inert now that the spark of life had left.

It looked abandoned. It looked suddenly old and unintelligent. Younglings who had tiptoed by its parking, suddenly sped by in wheeled exuberance, impervious to the loss.

It was the way it was, perhaps.

The way of time.

Still the closest friends held a sort of vigil. They hummed a monotone of song, in memory of speed’s potential and of what could no longer be ignited.

Then they left. To let It be. Disjointed. Parted. Never to move on.





For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz


Where She Lies


Photo: Andrew Buchanan on Unsplash


Where the green grass ends

And the ocean grows

Is where she lies

And listens

To the crabs

As they crawl

And the fish

As they flutter

And the wind

As it lifts the

Wings of


And spins


On the sand.



For RDP Friday: Lies

(and for Kathryn, in my mind’s eye)



Fallen NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda


I’ve lost connection

With over-tired roots


With the passage of the elements

And time.

I’ve let go

To the shifting earth

And to the rocks

Repeatedly cracked open

By frost and sun.

And toppled to lie


Atop the ground.

Ready to go back

To that from which

I had




For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Trees



Saving Daylight

Saving daylight2 NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda


Cherish every moment


Of light as

Suns will set.

Hold on to the

Deep rewards

Of daylight breathed

Through soul,

And saved.


For Terri’s Sunday Stills Challenge: Daylight Hours


After The Fire

after the fire DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman


After the fire

Come the expelled breath

Of sorrow,

The stripped soul

Of Earth,

The charred remains

Of dreams,

And the held breath

Of hope.



For the dVerse challenge: Fire


Grace’s Embrace

Nicaragua3 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif


What grace allowed

Through ocean’s sigh

And earth’s old core

That plumed near by,

Embraces life

In all that die.


For the Ragtag Monday Prompt: Grace


A Basalt Creek After The Rain

basalt creek after rain AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz


A basalt creek after the rain

Where mountains spewed onto the plain

Cold lava rock there still remains

The base for what’ll grow again.


For Six Word Saturday


Make Way

Mulch path Central Park NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda


There’s a path in the park

Lined by mulch from trees past

So that every step presses

What had grown,

What won’t last.



For Cee’s Which Way Photo Challenge


connection muir

The boy, five years old, had his hands deep in soft dough. “What do butterflies eat?” There was a butterfly cutter among the shapes on the table, likely the inspiration.


“From the flowers?”


Silence, a bit more kneading, pulling, twisting and squeezing. This kid has such high sensitivity to textures that it took three months of work with an excellent occupational therapist before he was willing to touch the dough, let alone let it squirt between his fingers. My work with him was reinforcing the OT work in the speech-and-language contexts. Children learn much better when their body is engaged.

“What do frogs eat?” He fingered the frog cutter, put it next to the butterfly one, compared their sizes, lightly pressed the edge of the frog shape into his ball of dough.

“Frogs eat mosquitos as well as other kinds of insects: flies and gnats and such.”


“How come?” I smiled.

“Because mosquitos eat people alive.” His big eyes hang on me, suddenly a little scared by his own repetition of words he’d heard, “but do they really eat people?”

“Not exactly, no. The female mosquito drinks blood for her food, but only a very little bit. It is very small and it doesn’t actually eat you.”

“Oh. Yucky.”

“Yeah, I would not want to be a mosquito.”

“Me neither!” Pause. “Frogs don’t mind, right?”

“Yep.” I can see another question coming.

“Who eats frogs?”

“Snakes do. Some other animals eat frogs, too, even some people eat frogs.”

“People!?” The munchkin was simultaneously impressed and repelled. “People don’t eat frogs, do they?” he turned to his mommy. Usually, I’m an acceptable source for information, but some things require a higher authority.

The mother nodded, amused. “In France they do. Maybe in some other countries.”

“Yuck.” he relished the word. “Yucky, yucky.” He twisted his lips in contemplation, and you could see the wheels turning in the little brain behind the hazel eyes and summer freckles. “But … frogs eat the mosquitos and the mosquito eat blood from people …” he let the question dangle.

I raised my eyebrows, waited.

“It’s like a circle.” He breathed. “It is everything connected!”

From the mouths of babes.