Silken

A strand shines white,

a glimmer on the darkened street.

The moonlight has touched it,

but its fellows remain that rich brown

hanging down to your shoulders.

Each one a piece of your thoughts,

a ribbon tied fast to the building blocks

that make you.

Old strands gift their being to others,

and then leave.

Fresh beginnings grow in their stead.

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Oracle of Ages

The trees always smiled when I entered the forest.

I bet you think that’s

odd.

Trees can’t smile.

But they can;

look closely.

 

With their slight shimmering

of branches,

they always asked why it was so long

between

 

visits.

 

I would reply the same way each time.

‘So I may never take this peace

and solace for granted.

It is easy for moments like this

to go unappreciated

until the time we can share them

no more.’

 

Now, trees are ageless,

pensive beings,

who see much loss in their lifetimes.

Yet no matter how they try,

the fleeting, finicky

minds of humans

are quite beyond them.

 

All the council they gave was, ‘Surely

the wonder of a moment

pales beside the wonder of an age?’

Mirror Pool

The tea in my cup is a mirror pool,

a pensive place of comfort

to gather my thoughts at the end of the day.

 

Why is it so hard to show passion?

To have dreams that are bursting from your body

invisible to everyone but you

and those select few

you trust and take into your heart,

who have no expectations

because they simply enjoy you

being you.

 

Why is it necessary

to fight the urge to fall into those few,

even though they’d catch you without hesitation,

and you’d easily do the same for them?

To see the look that says they will

hold you

if you need it, at any time,

and still not dive?

 

Why is love so difficult to express

in front of others,

to hold hands, touch nose to nose,

have that same solid certainty in our eyes?

None of the passers by care;

half

haven’t even noticed.

But there’s still this poisonous awkwardness

lingering in my bones.

 

I gather my thoughts at the end of the day,

reflecting in a pensive place of comfort:

the mirror pool in my teacup.

Thorn Mirror

Pricking my finger on the first thorn

of a young rose, I suck the bead of blood away

only to find that it’s already left a map on my hand,

pooling in my palm to create

a still mirror

reflecting someone I don’t recognise.

I shake my wrist, flecking the ground with red.

Seedlings sprout from the seeds,

readying their first thorns.

A prolonged tea break

I’m sitting on top of a ladder, balanced on the rung

gazing down at the world.

Stars are beaded into my hair

and moon dust glitters on my cheeks.

My clothes are patched with space junk

and I’ve tired myself out signing to the satellite

that I don’t want to come down.

They’ve asked me to move, to go back

to earth and mingle with the life once more.

I don’t want to risk my health – there’s a plague

of humans itching to infect me.

To ask me, to corrupt me.

Even Hades has no time for that.