flood and drought

quasi drunk

on these precious petals

plucked by trembling 

finger tips of good faith

and half willing

only to appease

our inability to change

 

but they are in no measure 

what mother needs

to keep her flesh

from bleeding out

and crying for us

her lost ones

who can only cling

to her withering skin

and our own false

hope

night rain

haven’t we heard enough
of this insatiable thirst
lapping at our bones
and our land
our windows and doors
it’s as if to say
‘just to remind you
we might not stop
if we choose’
but for now it’s just bluff
they will lull us to sleep
and slip away before
the light wakes
an obliterate world

windowless rooms

there are shadows nested in me
a womb of quiet wraiths
x-ray proof
hand-me-downs i never chose
bequeathed from meagre pickings
can’t hand them back

so i carry them close
pressing warmth against
their chill to soften the sting
in hope to remind me
we don’t see our footprints
until we look back

hope

The duck appeared from behind her, flying low overhead,
a sudden pronouncing ‘swish’ in the air, then gliding silently
toward the river.

She shaded her eyes and watched it’s final approach to the water,
surprised by how ungainly it was in the final moments, seeming to
doubt its abilities with sudden last minute adjustments to its pitch,
belying the thousand other landings it must have made.

She looked down and rested a hand on her belly, crumbles of sunlight on her dress
filtered through the soughing leaves above.

Everything safe and contained. Her body knew what to do,
she didn’t have to think or worry for now.

She looked back up at the river and saw the duck, now bobbing gently
across the cool, supportive ripples of the water, serene in it’s normalcy,
and offered up a quiet prayer.