Dry Spell
What could be more precious than to find beauty in the ordinary?
All in a flourish of
trilling birdsong,
the feathered shadows
hasten back to the
whispering willows
wings full of the rising wind,
who on her back carries
a scarce gift
proudly—like the thunder cracks
full of might and warning—
as the thirsting earth yawns,
open and yearning below,
where you stand in place
struck by a moment's pause.
*
Your curiously upturned face
greets the first hesitant drops,
who fall swollen and bravely alone,
then all at once,
together
they fall
in a tremendous symphony,
a raw, rhythmic, rain-soaked
harmony, inviting you to dance,
life to grow,
hearts to beat,
mouths to sing,
and hope to make
a home again
where it once felt out of place.
About the Creator
Emily Kitazawa
Just a curious observer of life, sharing what I think & imagine through written word.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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