The Wind

I cannot control the wind
or it’s constant metamorphose,
I listen to the rustling of the leaves,
and watch the tree tops sway,
I feel it’s force against my cheeks
as my heels dig into the ground

I fight achingly against each sudden surge,
and lean in with all my might,
while it gainfully gusts,
and steadily swirls,
any way it chooses,
with no conscience, no regret

until I’m left squarely standing,
slightly swaying like the tops of trees,
I close my eyes, feet firmly planted,
listening to more than the leaves

I hear my inner voice, shouting,
‘I have not acquiesced’

for, I know,
I cannot control the wind,
nor can it control me

-Image credit, a beautiful piece of art!; reworking of an older poem, one of my favorites


Grace, a Quadrille

I don’t know if I can go on;
your words haunt me,
a constant murmer,
ringing in my ears

I miss you
the world has dulled,
and everything has gone gray

I just keep thinking –
true strength paints itself
in the colors of grace

-created in response to the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge #201, as well as the dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille Challenge, Murmur; image by Kyle Thompson


she was inevitable,
he was drawn into her wake,
a balloon tied to her wrist

he loved her;
she filled his thoughts,
compelled his actions,
stole his heart –
he would do anything for her

he loved her,
and he listened;
he listened,
and instead of drowning,
instead of getting lost in a world
of her pain and fear,
he tried to be the map out of it

he knew her –
so there was no swooping;
he just took hold,
almost imperceptibly,
becoming the truest thing in this world
she could count on,
so that anything she did,
every seemingly trivial thing,
became like everything else she did –

-image via Pixabay


sleepy eyes wake to salmon hue
sneaking between the window shades

inviting feet to follow, out
to savor what the gods have made

billowing cotton stretches the sky
as I breathe in the chilly air

and little paws dance on frosty grass
reluctant to leave his lair

warmth radiates in steamy wafts
from my favorite coffee mug

filled with the best pour-over blend
made for me, the perfect hug

thinking pad and clean white sheets
lay before me, calling me home

I sink to inky depths, welcomed
direction completely unknown


they slide in beneath the downy white cover,
and she scoots over to him,
snuggling in,
her entire length making contact,
leg draped over his own,
arm resting upon his chest,
her head pillowed onto the crook of his arm,
and her breath a hot rhythm upon his chest

he closes his eyes –
she’s so close,
he isn’t sure where she ends and he begins –
he can hardly believe the warmth of her,
and not just the heat her body permeates,
but the way her presence is this peaceful seed that plants itself deep inside him,
growing and growing,
blossoming from his center,
making him completely aware of the thereness of her

and all he can do,
is hope

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown

Reaching for the Sun

two saplings
in a forest of trees
both desperately reaching
for the sun

up, up, seemingly
toward and forward
yet, in parallel
together, but not
quite whole

stunted, each one
too shaded, blinded
by clouds in the sky
and lying dormant
too busy looking down

awake, matured
two trees bend with
drawn together
as one

reaching for the sun

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown