A sight for sore eyes...
A home hidden in the breeze
Glances at what can be and what cannot
Tree tops filled with ice glares
Following a shadow that hides
Embarrassing moments swinging freely
Crazy unending silence that drops
Voices with silky smooth tones
Delving into what mystery never was
Alive in corners that crawl towards you
Space empty and filled with names
Rush of sweet maple moving out
Here is a state that never closes
Stunning act of crashing to pieces
Stealing a plate of fresh good words
To boast in what is not real
Fighting for a cold sting of air
About the Creator
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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 Munson5 days ago in Fiction
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