reading
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The Whistler
A whistler claims the springtime air. His rhythm stirs the water fair, And swans, in envy, fly away, Resigned to cry another day. The whistler has no thing to mourn, Unlike pedestrians forlorn. For meadows come from storms of rain— Small price for color we shall gain! Dear whistler, never slow your tune. Let it…
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The Collector
I collect forgotten things: Dusty books and memories, Fallen leaves from slumbering trees, Music no one else still sings. I wear a coat of happy dust, Reveling in the Ancient smell. How could I refuse to tell These tales old? I must.
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Lady of the Brook
This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song. The lady of the brook Sees the moon—he creeps above, Dancing on her surface. O! what could it be but love? The lady of the brook Waits each night for his return, Never knowing that for her His heart…
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autumn’s roses
which holy garden could have been mother to roses of such sheen? slumbering in the promise sweet of a september soon to greet— autumn so painless, they’ll forget the scorching summer lives on yet. see how this flower, clothed in red, yawning, bows her pretty head.
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Life & Flowers
I stepped out today to find all of my flowers had bloomed. Gathering some into a vase, I realized why it’s important to wait for certain things—and to appreciate what’s going on during the wait, even in moments when it seems no change is happening. The flowers are stunning, aren’t they? If I had rushed…
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The Old, Grieving Garden
Wildflowers spring to life where they will As, above, the sun sets on my sorrow. I didn’t think that I had tears to cry still. This sadness will last well into the morrow. The flashes of blue and dots of white Dancing in patches of summer dirt Nod sympathetically to my plight, As if they…
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Starlight & Streetlight
With stars and Streetlights Guiding me, I got lost all the same. Searching for The sunrise, I Heard whispers Of my name. Heavenly Dance slows for Nobody, Poets and sleepers alike. Starlight and Streetlight will Keep their shine Long into the night.
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Time & Space
Eternity Passes, like Dregs of the Milky Way Trickling through Space. Cosmic Light fades in The heat of Ancient Sun.
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The Grudge
What am I going to do when the season ends and my flowers begin to die? How will I cope when I go outside in the morning and, instead of seeing a new darling has bloomed, I find the stalks becoming dry and crinkly—these gentle plants that brought butterflies and bees and joy to my…
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How Books Resemble Flowers
Writing a story is like growing a flower in the sense that you can’t rush it. The plant won’t bloom if you don’t give it the care it requires: some need more water, others wither if you give them too much. I learned through gardening and writing that it’s best not to control things too…
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A Whisper in a Daydream on a Hill
Recently I learned that a friend with whom I had been very close a few years ago died suddenly. I don’t know the details and don’t think I could handle getting into them. It has unearthed a whole new set of emotions in me, things I had only read about before in books. There’s the…
Mariella Hunt & the Tearoom 