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

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listening to the day's wakening heartbeat, the unseen thrush trilling in the still-dark before the January dawn, I can almost sense you turn in your sleep - and this is my survival: even in the act of leaving I am always coming home © Sarah Whiteley In one more short month, I'll be heading (again) … Continue reading *

sweeping up

so many of the places where we were are gone as if an unseen hand were sweeping up after us after closing after the late shadows have pushed the last shreds of day into quiet evening even then there were crickets and smells of coffee shops and wisteria that dripped its scent like soft voices … Continue reading sweeping up

a song of home

song in silvery descent beats in sweet repeats the tug of lodestones, the clamant lure of westward-leading winding winds, I sing the binding beck of springing grove and blooming troves of heather, let the tune renew the sweet enchantments the road has written upon my straying shade, in engaging turns, in immeasurable measure, render the … Continue reading a song of home

home

in the hollow house the drapes hang empty and vases hold dust where lilacs once were propped by careful fingers that chair has always sat vacant though the only two who knew have gone somewhere on the winds have scattered weeds into the garden where she left rue and forget-me-nots at the time without thinking … Continue reading home

journeying

it begins with a walk through sweet bee fields between trees that speak of mornings beneath the mountain’s gaze left far behind when the wanderer became the lost it starts with the tread of regretful soles along the streams where the northern birch drink the day and point the way through the pass passed by … Continue reading journeying

before rain

after the sun before the night the tang of rain the final fleeting of feathers as the birds fly home would I were them momentary flight the transitory gleam of reaching home after the sun before the night before rain © Sarah Whiteley