The breeze tickles my skin
As my feet take steps, one by one
I slow and turn my face towards the sky
Breathing deeply, I close my eyes for a moment
I blink up at the dazzling blue
As dusty pillows float above
I take in their shapes
Feel the wind playing with my hair
Like secrets whispered in my ears
From loved ones past, some I’ve never known
Their peace surrounds me
I am struck by the flow of time,
How deep and unfathomable it is
Shaping every memory, yet as elusive as a ghost
The scent of sweet grass in summer
Reminds me of childhood memories
With you there in front of me, smiling
I can always see the sunlight dazzling behind you now
Lightly obscuring your features lost to my memory
When a little bird sings to my right
I turn to see the slender branches swaying
I can almost hear you telling me
All about that bird and what it means
You are often around me
Taking my spirit to the safety of home
In the crispness of winter cold
Or the drone of cicadas in midsummer
Your presence for a moment tangible
Though ancient threads long lost to earth
Connected — I am home again.
About the Creator
A.M. Harte
A.M. Harte has dreamed of being a published author ever since she was a little girl. She lives on the Canadian prairies and writes poems and stories inspired by life's struggles, always with a hint of optimism.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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