Sunday, December 17, 2017

There We Are (Day 333)

There we are:
In a grove of aspens, golden,
quaking, with innocent smiles,
all drawn up together 
beneath a fall of fluttering
citrus-stained leaves.

There we are: 
I knelt by your bed, 
knowing. You smoothed
my hair and my way home. 
But your barely perceptible 
tremble still hums 
in my fingertips, late at night.

There we are:
Our last few days, exploring
the places you knew
as a child, before winter
sliced into the picture, 
leaving behind an odd hole
shaped like you.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Spearfish SD, source unknown

Saturday, December 16, 2017

When Service Begins (Day 332)

When service begins, she is looking to her right, at an ostentatiously pious, balding man and his younger wife, who seems ill at ease. Whether she dislikes being in church or simply being next to her husband is difficult to say.

In California, she thinks, looking out at the wilderness of the unmown field next door, everything, even church, is more comfortable, natural and easy.

The little boy just in front of her just turned seven, and can’t open his hymnal to the right page. When his mother reaches over to help, he jerks the book and turns away, wanting to do it himself. His mother sighs audibly, and a tiny surge of annoyance ripples through their neighbors.

Looking to her left, now: A very large, very rude woman, who never sits in the rear, though she always arrives late, and who, every week, manufactures an opportunity to proclaim herself one of the few Native Californians in the congregation. 

Since moving here with her son, weekends have been lonely. It is hard to meet people, when everyone spends so much time in their cars, commuting and running errands. Always, sitting in traffic. 

At first, she actually tried walking to the grocery store. But, in that brief quarter-mile, she attracted so many pitying glances and offers of rides or assistance that she, too, took to her car.

The woman next to her settles back and relaxes, her thighs spreading a bit as she does. It’s a comforting feeling, this sudden body contact. Anyway, she thinks, wouldn’t it seem antisocial, somehow, to pull away too soon?

When the service ends, she is glad to step into the glare of the parking lot. It feels so good, relaxing her face, not having to smile any longer.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Stained Glass Window, St Michael's Church Linlithgow

Friday, December 15, 2017

Golden Fortune (Day 331)

Make your own golden fortune,
blessed fate, or good intentions.
Let them flood, spill, saturate this 
disgruntled world. Let them clothe, 
feed, cool and cure. Let them choose 
the food you eat, the clothes you wear, 
let them be the only air you breathe, 
the stars that wait patiently in place, 
while you sleep and dream about your 
golden fortune, blessed fate and good 
intentions. They are the lingering 
bouquet of your bittersweet perfume.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Inside Kremlin, via Wallpapers13

Thursday, December 14, 2017

How Little (Day 330)

I am  afraid
of how little  I have 
to say  to you
today  tomorrow perhaps         
I will   have
more  perhaps

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Forbidden Burden (Day 329)

tapers bloom 
drawing fish
white faces 
from the night 
pale pretty 
flowers smeared
over the 
raw moonlight 
clouds afraid
to release 
their forbidden 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Beach Fire (Day 238)

Freighters’ lights, like stars,
glimmer and swim
in the distance. Between swells, 
they fall from view. Our eyes 
track their progress, instinctively
seeking their reappearance
each time they drop into vast 
watery valleys below the black 
horizon. Watching driftwood burn,
we feel the cold sand dampening.
Nearby, waves tumble and hiss,
closer now than before. The tide 
is turning. We must go.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Monday, December 11, 2017

Twice as Cold (Day 327)

There, stern water, gray 
as iron, and twice as cold
—boldness froths like 
whitecaps at your telling, 
yarns of hard-won wisdom 
beat black pearls for treasure, 
chests of gold, hard-hearted 
gems for warmth, their value 
neither won nor sold, 
nor useful when you’re growing 
old with no delightful company 
to make you laugh until you cry, 
to warm your sheets when 
bitter cold creeps beneath 
your unsealed door.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Wolfgang.Mller54