Aubade

Just one last look before I go
As the morning light tenderly caresses
Ridges and valleys of time,
Revealing the years in your face.

My skin tingles with the echo of your full lips,
The memory brushing over me like a warm breeze
Of passion aged like fine wine.

Brows unfurrowed in sleep
Release in me an urge to trace
That ridge over bottomless eyes now hidden.
The cares of the day briefly
Relinquishing their hold over you.

Breath that tickled my neck
And whispered in my ear
Now sighs deeply in sleep’s embrace
As you roam where I cannot follow.

Do you dream of simpler days?

If you were to wake
Would you draw me back to you,
Dismissing the obligations of the day?

But for the furrowed brow, I would return.

Yet I must go.
Sleep on, my love,
Though I must leave,
My heart remains with you.


 

<a href=”http://yeahwrite.me/fiction-poetry-writing-challenge-247/”><img src=”http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/fiction247.png”></a&gt;

The Argument

The late night dancing raindrops shimmer
In headlights, as in the cold
We yearn for the warmth of a crackling fire.

Words fly, and the fire
Of pent-up frustrations shimmer
In tears of a love grown cold.

Though piercing words stream cold
And sharp, they fuel a fire,
Through memories that are but a distant shimmer,

And we discover a shimmer of cold love reawakening in fire.

      

The Tree

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The tree sits proudly in the living room, boldly taking up a quarter of the available space. I was so grateful for the boys’ company that I let them choose it, and they chose the biggest one on the lot. With plenty of struggle and laughter, they helped their dad get it on the car, then squeezed it through the door of the house, and here it sits, a visitor enthroned in its stand, accepting its esteemed position in the middle of everything.

For days it sits like this, a needle-feathered forest visitor to the austere geometric world of our house. It’s so tall that I can’t reach the top to start stringing lights, and the previously willing helpers have all disappeared into their caves. I sit on the couch and ponder the sheer size, wondering how to tackle the job ahead of me. The rain is coming down in sheets outside, drenching the ladder that still sits by the house from the day my husband put up the lights. I’d probably hurt myself trying that anyway. I could use a chair, but the angle of the tree makes me wary of falling and taking the tree with me. Finally, my youngest son, blessed with height and long arms, deigns to help. We get the top string of lights up just as the timer beckons us for dinner. I will return later to finish the job by myself.

Again, I sit on the couch and ponder the tree, now adorned with white lights. Boxes of ornaments sit on the sidelines, waiting the arrival of my daughter from college. The tree stands in simple elegance, a stately sentry to the other half of the house.

We have been through many trees over the years. One year long ago we had a live tree. It now graces the bottom of our property, a tall testament to the passing of the years. When it snows, I position my youngest son beside it, documenting the growth of both of them with a photo. 

In our family, Christmas tree selection occurs right after Thanksgiving, and decorating it has always been a family affair. This was easier when everyone was home. My eldest is now out of the state, though we did wait for him to arrive last year. He won’t be coming home this year. My daughter just arrived from college, and although we waited for her, we ended up waiting even longer. We couldn’t seem to find the time to decorate.

I seem to sit and ponder the tree a lot.

Finally, through frustrated tears, I announce that I will be decorating this tree, and anyone who wants to is welcome to help, but it is happening now. My middle son, a fresh young adult who recently announced that he wasn’t celebrating the holiday, hugs me and asks me to wait one more day. He is meeting up with friends and will be back the next day to decorate with me. I acquiesce.

The tree twinkles its white lights at me. What does it know of the passing of time? I stare at the three glass ornaments placed on it in frustration. They will sit there for two more days before the box is opened.

In my mind’s eye I see smiling children perched on chairs, leaning precariously toward the tree, ornaments in hand, posing for pictures.  I see the carefully packed ornaments coming out one by one and us laughing at the first grade pictures and the glued together popsicle sticks. I see my middle son with an armload of nutcrackers. I picture us sitting cuddled under blankets, sipping hot chocolate from Christmas mugs, admiring our handiwork, music playing in the background. How many Christmases were spent like this?

Even the ornaments are packed with meaning. There is a sushi ornament for the year we discovered sushi and a small wooden ferry from our trip to the San Juan Islands. There are skiing ornaments and music ornaments and photo ornaments. Every year the tree becomes a 3-D album of our life together.

Last year’s plea was to not decorate the tree until they came home. This year I waited. And waited. And waited.

Next year I will pick the tree. It will be short. It will be thin. I will wait, but only for so long, and then I will lovingly pull out the lifetime of ornaments, decorate the tree and remember.

Fingerprints


terrypresley / Foter.com / CC BY

When life was young, I scrubbed your fingerprints
From the refrigerator door, my heart
Worn from the frantic pace of days.

Through swiftly passing time, your days
Overflowed with school, and those fingerprints
Graced many a roughly cut and painted heart.

Now you seek to fill your own heart
With a love to share your remaining days,
While I scan the refrigerator for a trace of those small fingerprints.

Yet in its ridges and valleys and whorls, life leaves its own fingerprints etched onto the heart in a collection of moments and days.

       

Morning Run


Stuck in Customs / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA

The midsummer sun shimmers golden
Over eastern hills. I grab my shoes and run,
As the world releases the remaining tendrils of the dark.

The Douglas fir throws shadows long and dark
And fields of summer wheat gleam golden,
As loping on and on for miles I run.

While the cock is still crowing I run
On a path that is dappled and dark,
Through my world with a compass golden.

When the day dawns golden, I run, and the world doesn’t seem so dark.


This is my first attempt at a tritina for Yeah Write’s December poetry slam.

 

To Forever See Your Face

Your smile slit the darkness in my soul, and my heart rejoiced in that space.
Through loving moments it became my goal to forever see your face.

Exploring a new world made for two, and you my heart did truly love,
Alone, once solo, now embraced my role to forever see your face.

Snow white gown in wedded bliss, a foreign aisle we glided down,
To each other promised a lifetime, whole to forever see your face.

Love like a bubbling broth overflowed, intertwined in creative force,
As our eyes looked upon small kindred souls to forever see your face.

Your shoulder my rock, you held my hand as news shook our world that grim day,
And by me did stand as my hope they stole to forever see your face.

Though lines are etched from years of life, I will cherish the time that remains
As we descend the other side this knoll, to forever see your face.


Ghazal attempt – check.