Broken, open (Day 863)

When love breaks you
open   a brandy-warm glow
of goodbye aching deep
in your heart   familiar
consoling   this fragile
precious world shimmers
its countless strands
glistening in a sudden flash
of brilliance   visible  only
to eyes blessed by grief

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: UpSticksNGo/Flickr

(CC BY 2.0)

Denial (Day 862)

All these days spent 

looking away

neither listening

nor seeking   

as if not knowing 

could make it be 

less so. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Inage: Pallab Halder/Pexels

Unmarred (Day 861)

impossible to watch 

these leaves   so tender   

so unmarred   to hear  

to feel  sublime against 

this rustling blue silk sky  

and other suns will rise  

and we  impermanent

will fade   the faint mist 

of another trailing day 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Ulleo/Pixabay

Still see her (Day 860)

In the subtle hours when imagination 

pirouettes   you may sometimes 

hear drifting clouds play 

a Mozart concerto to the red-blue sky   

listen   you can almost hear   

still see her   sense the unrecognizable   

a guest   uninvited   

but welcome in your house   

still see her   crumpled   

a velvet heap  against an otherwise-empty 

horizon   though you know she is not 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixnio

Here, where you are (Day 859)

On certain clear-light days, 

when your attention wanders 

and mounds of clouds glow 

on the horizon, you still see 

her, looming, out of the corner 

of your eye, and your breath 

catches, a gasp of recognition:

Oh, there you are. 

But, before you can smile, all 

the miles and years recall you 

to yourself, reminding you that, 

while she is there, you can’t see 

her, because she is not here, 

where you are. And, in that 

moment, you are sorry to have 

been mistaken, because you 

have lost her all over again. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: NOAA

Cast your line (Day 858)

Cast your line

reel in an empty 

hook  shiny and new

again  cast out 

and reel in  again  

this water  still 

and silent as 

a shoe without 

a foot  a fish 

will bite  or not

your only choice: 

to cast your line 

into the void 

or stop

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Vera_Croft/Pixabay

Late (Day 857)

brash wind   coursing cataract 

breath carving canyons 

in your veins   each rapacious gust

urging us:  begin

we tended yearnings   gently 

glowing   like the morning sun   

sweet and slow   but late   

needing us:  begin 

and we are burning   now may 

do little more than watch   

through windows   firmly sealed

a coral-tinted tide abate 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: US NPS

Wake up alone (Day 856)

your voice beckons  

back  I fall 

into the damp green night

I know you 

want me 

to wake up 

alone 

but how can you be so 

certain I can hear 

you  whispering 

from the gate where I left 

you  all those years 

since then  since wanting 

to find you  but not 

the world you painted

red and blue as autumn stars 

is farther away 

than it seemed then  

and in my dreams  

and it is 

hard going  clambering over 

this precarious terrain

so  just this once  say no  

tell me no

and let me have my way

I promise I will

close it  firmly  behind me  

when I leave

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: James McNeill Whistler, Nocturne in Blac

 and Gold: The Falling Rocket (1875), oil on panel, 

via Wikimedia Commons

May Evening (Day 855)

All full bright flutter  spring 

melts into summer   heightens

each sweet whistle  flash of orange 

in the woods  flowers 

riding the soft wind  and soon  

twilight will shimmer  

siren darkness sing 

through open windows  veiled 

with strands of half-spun dreams

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Melissa McMasters (CC BY 2.0)

via Wikimedia Commons

Carousel (Day 854)

veils of sky   clouds 

of delight    

we danced with the radio

softly into night 

before drifting off 

to sleep where we spun round 

and round 

making a liar of the honest blood 

shouting in my veins

and you its truth 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: James Daisa (CC BY-SA 2.0)

via Flickr

Saturday morning story (Day 853)

Saturday morning story

long dirt road   dairy farms

buzz of airplanes overhead

and we had no place else to go

so we walked    farther 

than we’d ever gone before

and the world opened just 

a little   unexpected   delightful

corners unfolding bit by bit

revealing hints of wonders

we might uncover if we learned 

where to look   someday 

soon   but not that day  

when we wandered laughing   

up the road in the sun   because   

we were still children then

blessed with time and each other

and we had nowhere else to be

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Jan Aredtsz (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Room for more (Day 852)

so much room for more

welcoming   allowing all

we cannot be like these

unique   making every other

blending   merging

and overhead a symphony

stretches then narrows

ahead the path

gray and gold and brown

until it turns   beckoning

forest of a thousand greens

never competing   each one

more so   and I wonder why

trees   like the sky   generous

as beauty   because there is

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: NOAA/Sheri Phillips

The kind that vanishes (Day 851)

Maybe I forgot 

about him   maybe 

I forgot 

about his eyes

burning   how I felt

them on the naked

nape of my neck

maybe

I forgot   how 

he touched 

my bare shoulder 

as he passed   

soft and fleeting

as a dream   the kind

that vanishes

when morning comes

and you

open your eyes

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: JanserMaciel (CC BY-SA 4.0)

via Wikimedia Commons

Countdown (A senryu for Day 850)

 

Waiting for better

It should have been here by now

Time is running out

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: NASA/Bill Ingalls

Afternoon storm (Day 849)

The day grows dark 

blusters & chafes 

against a gray din 

of air conditioning 

& childrens’ voices

leaves toss swirling 

like laundry pinned

out to dry framed 

by windows waiting 

for the first burst of 

rain a thunderous 

release & by the time 

the storm passes night 

will have fallen again

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Ronald Plett/Pixabay

You can't argue with these things (Day 848)

you can't argue with these things   

hot afternoons   streaming   delicate 

incense   baked dust   pine resin 

and always always the lighthouse 

just out of view   terrible 

in its towering Olympian certainty   

a wandering heart   dreaming of prairies   

before and after  distant rumbling 

breakers teasing pristine sand then 

melting out of view   urging   beckoning 

a restless mind far as the eye can see

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Danjocross/Pixabay

That Song (Day 847)

It was not the first time she heard him 

sing that song, and it would not be 

the last. Without knowing what he was 

doing, he would hum the tune—a little 

off-key—to himself, as if he was singing 

along with a top-40 hit on a portable radio 

propped in the sand near a faded blue

beach towel, 20 years in the past. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Oleg Magni/Pexels

The Knowing (Day 846)

I saw it   a waning 

crescent   subtle 

against the tarnished sky

diplomatic   yet unable 

to answer for 

its untimely demise

consequence bent into 

a rich reward

(that’s what it feels like) 

when turbid water 

clears   and disturbing 

visions rise   rending 

a surface flawed as glass   

only the knowing 

will be left   

alone   in their gardens 

beneath the moon

tending bitter regrets

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

 

Haiku for Day 845

Fluid clouds paint the sky.

In moonlit circles, saplings dance.

Lanterns cast long shadows.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Sandeep Pawar (CC BY 2.0)

via Flickr

First swim (Day 844)

Dipping our toes   again   

   into that cold gray pool

A cleft between rocks where rain 

   and melted snow collect

Where   in January   implacable 

   ice imposes its will

Further dividing what was 

   once one 

Where   soon  we will take respite 

   from a searing July sun

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

A little romance (Day 843)

Fingers entwined, they walked the steep, curving road, the town like a magic carpet at their feet; beyond it, a blue-diamond sea unfurled to the sky’s edge. Twenty years ago, and he could not imagine where that time had gone. Twenty years, and his love had only grown richer, more nuanced, layer upon layer—strata of joy, grief, frustration, contentment—accumulating beneath their feet, lifting them, ever-so-gradually toward this moment. He knew the hand in his, so strong and loyal and firm, as if he had painted it, in minute detail, every day of his life. Each line on that face, engraved by harsh darkness and fierce light, by time itself, was a road that, no matter where he turned, led him home again. Sure-footed, they descended, neither hurrying nor lingering, in perfect step, toward tomorrow and the next day, toward the magic-carpet town and the blue-diamond sea where, nearly two decades ago, they had watched the sun rise in each others’ eyes, and had known.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Mantas Hesthaven, Pexels

Cento 86: When you come in (Day 842)

Like when you come in 

from the wind   transported 

through tumbling clouds 

because you needed 

a sense of dread   you 

took a tiny dream   sweet 

and warm   that fell 

to the empty streets 

and sidewalks   chastising   

those small dark possibilities 

like opening your door

like when you come in

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay