Your heart, like a bird
fluttering, testing the winds
of change in your soul
before taking flight.
Breath-taking fibrillation
shocks us to the now
where a breathe can hang
like mist in the frozen air
then crash to the ground,
tiny icicles
shatter, chime through the silence
“it’s time to go home”
In a sense
we never really come to terms with loss;
we just find a spot to park it;
like a bus station locker, then
we lose the key.
#137
I have missed the morning ritual,
the gentle coaxing of words
from my sleepy subconscious,
the quest for image and rhyme.
The challenge met, there is a void
where discovery used to dwell,
a sense of loss, a loss of senses
honed to a comfortable habit.
There is no challenge now,
only the joy of knowing
the poem is already written.
I just need to remember it.
Perhaps I won’t be writing them every day anymore, but I guess the morning poem is a habit now.
Linda Studley 