When The Ice Breaks

greenland icebergs-933003_1920

Photo: Barni1 by Pixabay

 

He said he’ll be home when the ice breaks.

And every day she waited, one baby tugging at her skirts and another growing restless under her heart, and tried to not look at the field of crosses planted right outside her window. Reminders of the many who the frigid sea or dark winters or the loneliness of this place at end of the world had claimed.

Some days she hated Greenland. The endless nights. The gnawing cold. The monotony of the same few faces and the bickering that eventually picked open old scabs and gauged new hurts for the next arctic dark to revisit.

Other times she couldn’t fathom living any other place. Summer’s endless light. The sparkle on the water. Pups, babies, and not-so-babies frolicking. The wide spaces full of breath and warmth that thawed old sorrows into joy. It felt like coming home.

Will he?

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Greenland

 

In A While

May flowers2 NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

In a while

There will be all colors

Of the rainbow

And then some

More.

 

In a while

There will be radiant

Greens and sunny yellows

And all the different

Shades of

Purple

To show.

 

In a while

The monochrome of winter

Will make way for

Brightly colored

Spring

To make eyes and hearts

Glow.

 

 

For the Wits-End Weekly Photo Challenge: Bright Colors

Isolated Rest

Float2 AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

Not quite certain if it

Will be able to hold

The weight

Of tired swimmers,

Still it waits,

A little lopsided

And more than a tad

Tired

Itself.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Challenge: Isolated objects

 

The Tree

the tree amitaiasif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

“I will wait by the tree,”

She had said.

“At the fork where

The road

Meets the lush, green

Horizon.”

Wait she did,

Day again and again

And a month, and another.

Wait until they had come

Trudging home

From the war,

Wearing smiles, but

Carrying the weight

Of their sorrows

Around them.

 

 

 

For Becca Givens’ Sunday Trees

 

Faded Charm

door hostage PhilipCoons

Photo: Philip Coons

 

If you’re broken by worry

Hanging by a thread

Filled with dread,

There are links

That can hold

Even the weary and old,

Who then ride

The hard time

Till restored faded charm.

 

 

For the Thursday Doors challenge

 

Waiting For Sunrise

waiting for sunrise InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

Silently

Night retraced

Steps across

Dawn’s new ledge

As the dark

Slowly braced

For light soon

To emerge.

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Light and dark

 

Bedtime for Luna


PHOTO PROMPT © Gah Learner

 

“So, remember,” her hand on the door’s handle. “Bedtime at 9, only one treat, brush your teeth.”

“And no opening the door for anyone,” he intoned.

At least it got him a smile. There weren’t many of them of late.

She tucked an errant lock of hair behind an ear and suddenly he couldn’t stand it.

“When will you be back?” He knew. He had to ask.

She glanced at the window. The court-order weighed heavy on her mind.

“When Luna goes to bed behind the mountain, I’ll be home.”

For the last time.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Eight Not Ate

ducks SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

Eight brown ducks bobbing by

In the shade, under sky

Waiting for humans’ bread

To fall down on their head.

 

For August photo a day challenge

 

Waiting for Sam

Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt © Roger Bultot

 

He’ll meet her at the exhibition at Noon, he’d promised.

“You’ll see. Twelve on the dot.”

“Like Cinderella?” she had joked.

“Sort of.”

She scanned the crowds, the balconies, the empty domes that rose above like marble skies.

Laughter echoed. People milled around.

She checked her watch again.

It had inched, traitorous, well past twelve o’clock.

Like Cinderella with no fairy godmother, she thought.

Never should have eaten that pumpkin Sam had bought.

 

 

 

To join Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt, click here.

Times Old

Abel Tasman Coast Track2 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

In the days that unfold

Morning rays

Evening’s gold,

What awaits

Up your sleeve,

Still untold,

Kept in trust

Since times old?

 

 

For The Daily Post