for Shi Shi

out here the rain and your book are my only companions, and the only thing that matters is the campfire and keeping the sparks (bright, living) from too-close legs where fabricated light cannot reach solitude is no longer secondary, but breathes with my breath, and pauses in the dark - intending everything, but only later … Continue reading for Shi Shi

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thinking of those days behind the wheel, cat stretched across the dash, exemption stretched out along straight, gray highways trying now not to swallow that hook, though lately it seems the city hates me, shoves me toward her swilled-to-the-gill gutters back then, there was the bag kept in the back and it didn't matter that … Continue reading *

insomnia

craving stars, I crept down the crouching hallway, disturbing only moths seeking their own small allowance of light trees sleep, lowering their limbs by fractions as the day subsides, leaving only the incremental gestures of slumber I have had to explain often the peculiar edicts of insomnia, and how it does no good to seek … Continue reading insomnia

what the day contains

brown drifts of coffee grounds, and the tappings of the black-capped chickadee finding rhythm with the tick-ticking of spring rain on new-green locust leaves the passing hours mold the morning into the firmer lines of day, tracing the flights of fugitive birds - red hawk, wren, house finch, crow, ubiquitous dust-winged sparrow shadows lazily skate … Continue reading what the day contains

writing home

the small-birds have finally found the window feeder and the dogs are enthralled with their sudden proximity we are well, though feeling the spring in our bones - that gentle eruption debuts a new brand of restlessness the boards of the porch have been too damp for comfortable reading, and coffee for now is confined … Continue reading writing home

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you are mistaken, dear friend - it is not loneliness to be in such a space, where solitude might be relievedly embraced it is not lost when the venturing writes a trail to rediscovered peace © Sarah Whiteley

2.16.2015

I can't forget that day the hummingbird darted through the snow - you slept through it - content with the dogs in a patch of morning sunlight, which found and stroked the red-gold stubble on your cheeks the way I wished that I might without breaking your sleep