Today I will not punish them.
Today I will gather the rocks, which my sadness has worn smooth,
And make a garden path.
I will lead Sadness to the bank of a clear, calm pool and
Let it rest there.
I will welcome the fog of depression and let it decorate the
Leaves and spider's webs with drops of moisture.
I will dig a fire pit for rage, giving it a space to burn as it wishes.
I will sit with them, dance with them, sing with them,
Howl with them.
They will no longer be other, but instead, given a garden.
Given a space.
I will tend this space, and drink my coffee there.
The freedom it offers is tangible.
Joy is here too, of course.
Making welcomed appearances, when it
Dances in the light of the fire, glistening with droplets of fog,
Singing.
About the Creator
Frances Leah Brown
I am a singer, a story teller on stage and in print, and a lover of family and nature.
Keep reading
More stories from Frances Leah Brown and writers in Poets and other communities.
Autumn House
Orange leaves gently swayed in a light breeze as twelve-year-old Chris Weaver walked down the dirt road. He kicked up dust as he mosied. The house at the end of the dirt road was red. It had a quaint porch, being swept by Granny Bloche. She wore simple attire: blue jeans and an ankle-length skirt. The orange sun was starting to set as Chris stepped onto the porch. ‘’Where am I?’’ Chris asked.
By DJ Robbins3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was amazing ❤️❤️💕