Photo: Smadar Epshtein
“What does happiness mean,” she asked,
Her eyes round with the query
Of the lost
Awaiting to be
Found.
“It is the sun warming your skin,” he said,
His own eyes taking on the mist.
“And the unexpected sweetness
Of cherries on your
Tongue.”
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Happiness
During the days there was glare and heat and baking sand and the parched tongue hoping for good water.
But at night, when they made camp, and the chill spooled at their feet and the camels chewed their cud and the humans picked the last crumbs of quick bread off their lap and the blankets were unrolled and small sounds of conversation carried on the breeze; there was ease, and sweetened tea, and the slowing beats of hearts ready for sleep.
And the sky, a dome of diamonds, flowing over them, the old and young and man and beast, as in their dreams they sleep with the moon and swim in the waters soon to ripple under the sun to the east.
Prosery prompt: “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.”–From Mary Oliver, “Death at Wind River”
A silver light,
In blue
It was.
A glimmer on
Still
Water.
A place of dream
Of home
It was.
A hope for
Time’s lost
Daughter.
She spent the day swimming, buoyed by the swell and fall of waves, kissed by the spray of salt, caressed by playful bursts of wind as silvery bodies and slick flippers dipped and slid and spun beside her.
The sun warmed the top of her head, then the tip of her nose and the crests of her knees as she turned to rest and float and face it.
It was like living in a dream.
And it was. A dream.
The stained glass in the open door a portal to what was. The ventilator sighed. She could no longer swim.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo by Aditya Wardhana on Unsplash
Perhaps it is, really,
By design
Where we are born
And how we live
And how and when and why
We die.
Perhaps it is
By fate,
That we can love
And we can laugh
And dream
And struggle to let go
Of hate.
Perhaps we’re each
A stitch
In the tapestry
Of an overarching
Plan,
(That we do
Or do not
Understand).
Yet still the truth
Remains,
That our strength is
Bound to fail at
The weakest
Thread.
And that we each have a
Part in
Whether we
Mend
Or shred
The possibilities
Ahead.
And just for fun, also for Terri’s Sunday Stills: Yellow
Photo: Ishan @seefromthesky on Unsplash
When the light
Aligns just right
And the ebb and flow
Combine
To sheer insight,
She breathes in
To allow
The soul expanding
Syzygy
Of hope and
Love and
Heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Syzygy in 30 words
She rose with the sun, her brow still damp with the essence of dream. Soon enough her feet were, too, from dew and from the small drops of silence that mornings bring.
There was little to say, and much space to accompany.
It was a good day.
It had to be.
There will be time much later on, for all the things she might still need, and all the words she may still say, and all the sorrows she no longer wished to borrow.
In the meanwhile, she walked on, crushing dandelions, breathing lavender.
The fields stretched ahead as the disc of light leaned hot against the sky. The air shimmered, dancing in the sun.
Or wavering.
It would not matter, in the long run.
She walked on.
Eventually she’d have to turn around, retrace her steps, return into the pace of tending, bending, sending, lending, fending.
And it would still be a good day.
For the dawn poured the generous morn into her, washing her, filling her, scenting her soul. Step by breath by step by breath, immersed into the longest walk her present moment could recall.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Listen
To the tune
Sung by
Leaves
As they
Grow.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Tune in 10 words
Photo: Amitai Asif
Go deep into the space within
Where sorrow holds to joy,
And find the light that shadow
Serenades
In times
Without employ.
Go deep into the burrowed
Land
Where memory resides,
And seek the song that
Dances,
Stubborn,
In your mind.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS writing prompt: Deep
Note: Dedicated to all who are struggling during these uncertain times. May you find all that you need, in health, in life, in light.
Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
In the big scale
Of things
Where watershed moments
Froth and fall in
Flush forward,
Each of us but a dot
Drenched in mist
Hoping life
Flows without
A fast-forward.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Scale
tucked away in the mountains
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