I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.
Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.
Can I really call them qualities?
I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.
I have a little boat
made of brown,
As it floats down the steady, gentle stream,
I lie back
my legs over the side
so my toes
kiss the cool water.
The movement makes a ripple.
The ripple knocks
against my little boat,
lulling me into a soft doze.
I walk in and out of dreams,
enjoying the journey,
unconcerned by where
I might end up.
Just like my little boat,
down the stream.
Sometimes a song catches in your head, going back and forth and around and around, like a wheel attached to a giant pendulum. It can lift you up, high enough to bring on fear but lose it at the same time, or it can bring you down, low enough to ground your feet for a moment and rest from the dizziness of the world. And sometimes it can leave you hovering in mid-air, giving you time to process everything up to that instant. That’s when you have the chance to choose: up, or down?
The umbrella looks down at me, taking in the shape of my head, the faint line of my hair parting and the curve of my neck as I stare at the puddle by my feet. In it, I can see the grey sky clearing. The umbrella’s work is almost done. In fact, the light, misty drops that tickle its top are barely enough to worry about. Yet the umbrella is rooted to my hand. Perhaps, like I once needed it, it now needs me.
They tied themselves together, linking their hands with an elaborate wrap of solder. It was all for the dance; preparation for the endless twirling and spinning that was set to take place during the sixty seconds between midnight and one minute past. But that minute is never just a minute; to the right people, it is an eternity. They were the right people. They never came back.
A ripple in a glass of water
can never leave the glass.
Yet if the glass ever cracks,
the water can push against it,
working away to force an opening.
Even if the gap it makes is only
wide enough for a trickle to escape,
sometimes that trickle is all that’s needed.
Seeping across the table,
weaving its way through discarded cutlery,
crusted salt and pepper pots
and past dusty, fine china plates
to the edge, where droplets form
ready to drip into the dry soil
filling the plant pot below.
The fresh seeds lying in wait
beneath the surface
will finally get
their spark of life.