She Was A Frosted Window

Jaimie was a window frosted from the winter cold. Many people scratched pictures and words into the cold that clung to her glass. They tore back little pieces of moisture to see what lay on the other side. They cut through the swirling patterns made by the frost and got mad at her because her beauty was broken. Through the lines in her frost you could see sadness and bitterness pushing against the glass, burning against all restraint. Slowly a bit of the frost melted and dripped down the window pane, leaving another trail for people to see through. They laughed at what they saw, murmuring about what a mess she was. They took out their needles and markers and wrote names for her in the frost and in the clear spaces of her glass. She pulled long dark curtains down over her glass and refused to show her face for fear of what others would say. Her friends gave up and she was alone. So I touched her gently and whispered songs of warm days and waited for her to be ready so I could wash away the pain that clung to her glass.

Place of The Bleeding Sun

The bleeding sun

Spills into the night

Like a bath of crushed

Rose petals.

This every day eclipse

Of love and hate,

Dark and light,

Day and night,

Quieting the house

Until as shadows descend

It shivers again.

Nocturnal creatures

Creep from the deep

to live ‘neath

the light of

the faltering stars.

And she shivers there

In her corner of the night

Wrapping thin words

Like a blanket ‘round her heart.

This child of the eclipse

Of love and hate,

Dark and light,

Day and night,

Keeping no home but

The place where

The bleeding sun

Spills into the night

Like a bath of crushed

 rose petals.

What Holds Her Together

---

She is woven, like glass

Only

Transparent as the sea.

She is hard, like stone

Yet

Soft as a threadbare quilt.

Her smile is a cup of tea

And

A frost-dusted rose.

Her hands are a soft-petal touch

And

A raindrop too much.

She is sweet like apples

Only

Sugary as a dream.

She is hidden like roots

Yet

Clear as a star-pricked sky.

Her laugh is a folded moonlight ream

And

A bleeding sunset breeze.

Her eyes are a basin of ambitions

And

A colander of wishes.

She is chilled like winter

Only

Cold as the ocean’s spray.

She is alone like fog

Yet

Collected as a horde of seashells.

Her fingers are brushes on a keyboard canvass

And

Raven feathers dipped in ink.

Her voice is a choir of bells

And

The hush of a barn owl’s wings.

She is tired like a heavy dew drop

Only

Whimsical as a quiet old book shop.

She is healed like stiches in fabric

Yet

Frayed as rips in denim.

Her heart is an oozing snake bite

And

A bravely guarded attic.

Her life is a wilted candle

And

A dripping cube of ice

She is waiting for the sun

Only

A breath of light barely begun.

She is waiting for the rain

Yet

Content with withered grass.

She is looking but cannot see

Only

Alone, her own detainee,

Her prison is paper thin.

And

Held together by the words

She refuses to believe.