Piece by Piece (Day 712)

Romancing the boxes, she packs,

piece by piece, wrapping

each memory, a bubble 

of tissue and plastic cushioning them

against the bruising realities to come.

A life, reduced now to small things:

   A photo of her mother and father

   vacationing, remarkably child-free, 

   by a sun-gilded sea

   The figurine, rendered in porcelain,

   of a young girl in a hoop-skirted, lace- 

   ruffled ballgown the color of jonquils

   A small, carved-jade box, just larger than 

   her palm, containing her entire collection

   of jewelry, seldom worn, much-loved

   The set of jewel-toned, cut-crystal 

   cordial glasses, from which she sipped 

   grape juice as a child

Now, building her wall, brick by brick,

she carefully stows and stacks, each layer 

adding a new echo to these once-bustling 

rooms, her mind quietly wandering, pacing 

the years, back and forth, west to east, 

and westward again, leading her 

along a footworn pathway toward 

the sun-gilded sea, and home.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Waiting (Day 711)

Outside, she is talking to a neighbor 

she knows. Inside, amidst the hums

and clicks and comfortable sounds 

of an old house settling, he waits. 

Often, he waits. He waits 

for hair, he waits for lips, he waits 

for dinner, for the end 

of a song in the driveway 

after a long day, he waits for his life, 

ticking away like that mantel clock 

she’s so fond of, saying tomorrow, 

or next year, or, more recently: 

some day I will… And, while he waits, 

she is outside, talking to a neighbor

she knows.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Juan Gris, Man in a café (1912), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Though you were happy (Day 710)

Though you were happy where you were, 

I held the door open for you.

You were not hungry, yet I fed you, 
spoonful by spoonful.

In the midst of a nightmare, 

you trembled, and I, believing you

were cold, lay another blanket over 
your warm and fragile body.

You did not ask me for these things, 

but I did them.

You did not want these things,

but I gave them, sometimes 

unwillingly, to you, and in the giving, 
and in the receiving, somehow, 
both of us lost the gift.

(c) by Hannah Six

Friday Sky (Day 709)

A Friday

kind of sky

full of hope 

and the absence 

of hope  

clocks ticking 

relentlessly  toward 

a breath 

of wine  sidewalks 

glistening  wet 

with possibility 

and  wishes 

(un)likely to be 

fulfilled

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Times Square, New York City, on a rainy day, 

March 1943, by John Vachon via US Library of Congress

Abigail (Day 708)

The sparkling tea brown water slicing 

between grassy banks flows from 

my mountain to the city where you are. 

You whose letters drop like autumn leaves 

   in the spring of my life. 

You whose voice vibrates the air between us 

   when we speak late at night,

   when we whisper secrets to each other 

   that only the ether shares. 

You, whose hand, large and rough and 

   strong, feels like a home, in which 

   my own finds refuge, warmth, and peace. 

Here, I dwell in firelight and rainbows. 

There, you toil in smoke and showers of fire 

to build a world we may never know. 

But when you return, when the stiff leather 

of your boots and strong muscles of your legs 

carry you back up the broad back 

of my mountain—our mountain, then—

you will find refuge, too. 

And the clean cold water of the stream will 

wash away the years of our parting, leaving 

nothing to come between us but the wind.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Fuzzy (Day 707)

Is the sky blue?

Or is that just the shade 

of the curtains? 

I can’t (or won’t) tell 

you what I think about 

because sometimes 

I don’t. Like a peach 

my mind is fuzzy. 

Like an apricot. And I can’t 

tell if what you want 

is something I can say 

out loud today.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Paul Cezanne, Still life with peaches and cherries

via Wikimedia Commons

Silent Land, Part 2: Christmas Day (706)

Silence blanketed the land

where celebrations bloomed before

—no songs were sung, no candles 

burned—and yet  this night 

if you looked up you might discern 

a single point of light piercing 

the industrial smoke-smudged glow  

The star apeared 

to lure eyes from their constant toil

to break the spell of gold 

   whose kudzu grasp had flourished 

   and, in flourishing, had killed

like a bell it pierced the dark

and like a beckon beamed

and  though thin and cold  

that flickering arrow found its mark

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo via <a href="https://www.goodfreephotos.com/">Good Free Photos</a>

Silent Land, Part 1: Christmas Eve (Day 705)

Muffled   the bells ringing lay 

like silence on the land

where wind-snapped flags 

  once billowed

where wild horses ran free 

and forests of ancient evergreens

lapped the shores of a distant sea 

Now liberty is a lullabye

a tale of golden years   rare 

as the rippling grain fields

that once carpeted the plains

before the darkness fell like rain 

before the people barred their doors

   against neighbors and friends

before they waged a war 

   without an end...

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Take Aim and Speak (Day 704)

Take aim and speak

heart-piercing silver lines 

down corridors awash 

in darkness  find your way 

by touch  slow-sliding progress 

marked on smoke-stained stones

let jasper waves douse your 

flames amidst the ermine silence

of a pale and fluttering heart 

where once echoed 

the fall of silvery chimes 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: DPNuevo/Wikimedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)

The page is sugar snow (Day 703)

 Open the page is sugar snow falling melting into concrete below steam-curtained windows into a long gallery stretching so far into the undefined distance that I can barely make out the figure wandering toward me stopping to gaze minutely at each image mounted on fortress walls I built over the years once I thought I could look out but there is only one view and that is outside facing in the lawn is frosted now each blade adorned with a cap of furry white flakes fall fat and fast eager to land wherever that might be.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixnio

The Way Girls Were Raised (Day 702)

Her tiny paper voice redolent of old jewelry 

and longing, decorated with a fairytale ending,  

an act of real-life resistance, saying: 

“Me too! My existence counts as something.” 

An umbrella, she sheds tears the clouds 

cry for the way girls were raised to run long, 

tapered fingers around wineglass rims, and 

to twirl the tiny paper parasols propped 

atop fruit-laden drinks with titillating names. 

How does she do it—sing songs of such 

encouragement and evocation? Yet, there, 

amidst a library of crumbling books in archaic languages, she hums a song so dark and cheerful 

that, in an unlit, unloved corner, Goethe stirs 

and blinks approvingly, and she, sensing 

his presence, tosses him a knowing wink.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Archives of Hamilton Public Libraries,

Hamilton, Ontario, Canada (via Flickr)

Senryu (Day 701)

Droplets dancing on glass 

Wet road a string of Christmas lights

Driving a Country song

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Haiku for Day 700

Moon-bleached blossoms drip

Stars hide their cold smokeless flames

Night flings useless rain

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Yesterday and tomorrow (Day 699)

Yesterday and tomorrow whisper

the muted hum of bumblebees inspecting

    a fragrant bank of honeysuckle

the purr of a cat stretched full-length

    in a pool of morning sunlight

the soft buzz of a hovering hummingbird

    testing a heavy-headed lilac

today and tomorrow tell me their secrets 

    in hushed library voices

while today remains silent, tranquil, a mirror 

    coolly reflecting, in elegant detail, 

the truths already known to my heart 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Derek Keats/Wikimedia Commons

 (CC BY SA 2.0)

Under a blue star (Day 698)

there   a blue star   over the doorway

where shadows were thirsting for light   

night was well and truly tired   over 

much too early   unsated   slumping 

defeatedly toward five o’clock   

shadows falling pale into an empty day   

until   again   these shades come   

crashing the party under a blue star

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

The Pool (Day 697)

He had never mastered the art of breathing 

underwater. While others dove and splashed 

around him, he waited at the edge, feigning 

indifference to the weightless floating and 

raucous games in which his friends indulged, 

though he was often invited. 

Seldom did he dip his toes in the gelatinous 

pool of emotions, fearing the undertow might 

draw him to its emerald heart, where he would 

be utterly and forever at odds with the patterns 

of light dancing across the sandy floor.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image:  CoYep/Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Estuary (Day 696)

hundreds of birds 

by a long wash of blue 

and gray   stunning 

the elegant face of nature

as she turns her back

on the eastern horizon

and readies herself 

for just another day

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixnio

Illumination (Day 695)

Illumination rises   in the arc of our belonging
we know within our bones that we are the hard
broken earth   and do not expect to be 
enamored of the river of possibility flowing 
beneath the solid bridge of the everyday 

(c) 2018 by Hannah Six

Kindness (day 694)

Kindness is in 

the carefulness

   of the hands

in the slow curl 

   of the lips 

and the curve 

   of a cheekbone

Kindness is in 

the truth of looking 

   and of seeing 

a human being behind 

   a jaded facade

Kindness is in 

the wish for 

   a peaceful day 

and it is also in  

   the having of one

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Rufus Sarsaparilla/Wikimedia Commons

December (Day 693)

how early the sun sets 

on these the dead-end 

days of December

when the sky is blank

it is the lack of stillness 

that disturbs  

and snowbanks of hours 

lean heavily against

afternoons already askew

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Change it (Day 692)

change it   

let it go 

if you don't 

want it 

back   say so

or there will 

be more tomorrow

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere