Velvet Blades
A poem adaptation
Palms pressed
to woven blankets under folded legs
bleeding warmth from sun and hand and feet.
Fairytale, cerulean blue skies grazed by rolling clouds.
A twig snaps. Insects sound. The fan whirls.
Lazy lungs drag the bearable humidity
settling like the dew, a familiar melody.
A bag rustles. Teeth crunch. The screen door slaps.
Fidgeting fingers sweep to the edge, seeking
bouncing resilient grass once, twice.
Finger pads slide up velvet blades
pulling, testing, wrestling to stay rooted. Snap.
The sun retires.
A bird whistles. The radio crones. Children giggle.
It surrounds, squeezing the most of short twilight hours
before a balmy night herds us inside.
A mosquito buzzes past my ear. I wait for the sting.
The wind caresses my cheek. Jeans rustle. Boots scuff.
Night bathes me, greeting me once again
radiating past my skin, taking residence in my bones.
I’d happily drown if you'd allow it.
A trickle of sweat plays, sliding down sloping spines
resting in the waistband of my jean shorts.
Gentle wind combs the leaves as hands reach, grabbing air.
Eyes open to fading light and an empty lawn.
The porch swing croaks. Insects sound. The fan whirls.
Warmth bleeds yet I stay a moment more.
One more.
About the Creator
Grace Downey
An artist, graphic designer, creative human, and secret Margaret.
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More stories from Grace Downey and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Whiskered War
A domestic drama; rather, you're witnessing a millennium-old conflict over the fate of the entire planet (and possibly just a smA titanic struggle between wits and strength has been raging in the shadows for millennia: The Great Nibble vs. The Purrsecution. The cats, the furry fighters, the fascists of the feline world, occupy one corner. In the other, mice make up the squeaky squad, the small militia. The reward? Domination over the entire world (and possibly an especially tasty cheese wheel).
By Richard Webera day ago in Humor
Comments (1)
I love this. This is a winning piece right here.