i remember her as a rare bird
she built a nest in my heart
and then... flew away
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This tiny poem is an extension of an ongoing theme of mine: The Lovers We Lose
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Stevi-Lee Alver is an Australian writer and tattoo artist. She lives in the middle of Brazil with her wife. She loves bush walks and waterfalls but misses the ocean.
About the Creator
Stevi-Lee Alver
Australian writer and tattoo artist based in Brazil. 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈
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Compelling and original writing
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More stories from Stevi-Lee Alver and writers in Poets and other communities.
Crisp Valleys
Louise Crisp says: she grew up in a hard country, meaning she was free to wander. I say: I grew up in a soft country meaning, I was free to wonder. The rainforest mountains sheltered me with nurturing undulation. A tanned kelpie followed my scent upstream. We ate from tropical fruit trees with abundant exoticness. Swelling rivers often left gullies full of water. The music was as consistent as the rain. Even the cicadas had a rhythmic purpose. In the creek corners, we hunted crystals. The canopy was my home and was anything but silent. With nothing but harmonies, even in the pitch-black dark, I never felt alone. How else can I explain rainforest-dwelling?
By Stevi-Lee Alverabout a year ago in Poets
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was really good I must have read it half a dozen times