A former teenage author turned twenty and her stabs at writing life and living to write.

Saturday, May 11, 2013


For my momma . . . 

A long bridge stretching
out past the water and misty moon.
She stands at the other side,
hand to her breast and chin to the stars.
Her dress is long and soft and clean.
Her brightness grows in gleams.
Beyond her stretch fields of blooms,
woods with hanging moss and cool sheltered places.
Further beyond the mountains high,
so high they touch the sun
and the sun bleeds light.
Light everywhere
It extends to the earth, to every seed.
It touches the slumbering flea.
It encircles the woman standing still;
her palm reaches out.
I want to run, run fast
into her arms and weep.
But the bridge is worn and tearing.
I take a step, it creaks.
The canyon below is vast,
jagged rocks and shrouds of darkness.
Unable to touch, unable to hold,
unable to see her face.
I’m thrust to the ground
to bury my face and remember
a life that never ceased.
A world that lurks in my mind,
taunting me with time. 

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