Try to remember them:
The days of smoke, of rain,
of golden leaves and woodfire embers
and orange twilights.
The growing nights,
ignited by the tawny harvest moon,
as full and round with possibilities
as the coming season.
These are the September kind.
The hours and minutes and memories,
the time and the turning,
the living and dying
that belong to us,
when we feel older and younger at once.
We are all the children of the fall.
Long lost,
then found.
And found again.
You and I –
we keep coming back
to each other,
my old forgettable friend.
*I am currently in the middle of a weeks-long, house-wide decluttering spree, having decided I can no longer stand the state of my closets, drawers, cabinets, and other storage spaces. I don’t have regrets. BUT, this was a much better idea before I got started.*
Good morning sunshine
Mist and calm in the meadows
A new day begins
Cicadas singing
A soft breeze through the green leaves
The sounds of summer
S’mores by the fire
The soft glow lights our faces
We’re summer people
Moonlight and warm air
The stars shine white in the dark
A nightly blanket
Half of my heart is here with me,
the other half’s in the hills.
I’m not ashamed of where I’m from.
I carry them in me –
my mountains, my people,
those places and faces
and powerful memories.
See, you can take the girl out,
but she’ll come home
whenever that strong heart wills.
They arrive
and darken the skies.
With a boom
and a crack,
like sprinters on a track,
they test their mettle for
the measure of a moment.
And in the end, they are
like victory – so very short,
nearly fleeting.
But never, ever sweet.
Somewhere by the blue gray sea,
just after the pink sun
peeks over the horizon,
when the water sparkles like diamonds
and the sand turns golden,
that’s our place.
(Let’s go back.)
Breathe it in –
saltwater and sea air –
and feel the sunshine
on your skin,
almost too warm.
Be
(just be)
without a care
for a moment,
a day,
a tiny fraction of
your total time.
Give yourself this –
this memory,
this place.
For now, right now,
the rest of the world
can wait.
A secret thing,
three little words
I need to hear
from you.
Maybe I’m selfish
to want them,
to feel like I have
something to lose.
So small, and fleeting,
those three words.
Out of your mouth and
into the ether they’ll go,
as if they never existed
at all.
But I’ll know.
“It was a beautiful wedding, my friend,”
I say, as I work to remove bobby pins.
Her hair falls around my hands
in tendrils, finally flowing and free,
and I add, “I’m glad to be here.”
A weekend a year in the making,
give or take, and three different locations,
and that’s all I can think to say.
I’m good with words at the wrong moments,
it seems. But I know this one
I’ll remember, regardless,
as the end of the happy (happiest) day
when my friend married her best friend
by the water in Maryland.
The hush of the day.
The slow and
steady step of night,
dawdling along
like a happy child.
The sleepy, changing
slant of light
on a pastel painted sky.
Try as you might,
in this world high on
hurry and worry,
you just can’t rush
a summer sunset.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 