The heart of the matter (Day 1016)

someone who cares 

less about rainy days 

and old films would be

—the heart of the matter 

is this    is me   asking

if you wanted to 

would you know? 

would I? 

or are we a week of Sundays   

slow and easy 

and maybe (some day) as sweet 

as that feeling you get 

when they dim the lights 

and you are on the verge

waiting   thinking   please

leave me tonight 

so I might breathe   or leave 

tomorrow if you can   because 

some day is one day too late   

and   before you know it   

they will raise the lights again

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Charles Hermans, Bal Masqué (1880), 

oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Thoughts on a waiting room (Day 1015)

So quiet   this 

absence

of music  

of blaring TV

of the pervasive 

    post-industrial hum

the only sounds—

a door opens and closes

   with a tiny click

someone walks   gently

    in soft-soled shoes

and taps a keyboard 

    delicately as a mouse 

    rustling dry leaves

twice   a freight train 

lumbers through the crossing 

bells ringing   horn wailing  

and then    abruptly   

silence settles again   

a blanket

of such unusual quality

it is almost worth paying 

for   this anesthetic buffer 

against the uproar (to which 

we have grown accustomed)  

of every normal day

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Composure (Day 1014)

Reckless hands   fingers 

seeking   finding   abandoning

a fountain of flame

playing the scales of the wind 

with prodigious nonchalance

diminishing beneath the weight 

of thoughtful composure

a searing triumph that twinkles

then pales   fading against timeless 

walls of percussive grandeur

below   in the bluest shadows

the chorus collapses in a tumbling 

cascade of dull-edged sparks

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: US Air Force/Airman 1st Class Anthony Sanchelli

Like Mercy (Day 1013)

In August winter starts

to seep upward 

from the ground   like mist 

I carry it   tucked 

deep inside my bones  

like mercy or courage  

the way violets keep 

their own counsel   

emerging ever-so-slowly 

along the edges of a clearing 

favored by dog-walkers

and in the footprints

of soldiers long dead 

in the silent passageways 

of mountain kings 

we tread  forbidden  

over a bounty of secret flowers 

their tiny petals quivering 

impossible to watch  

so tender   how the sun shone 

through the pale fountains 

of unfurling leaves  

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Edouard Manet, Bouquet of violets (1872),

 oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

The sun came out (Day 1012)

The sun came out while it was raining,

And fell like tears on her golden hair.

Off in the trees, a bird was singing.

She never noticed he was there. 

Fingers toying with a daisy,

She chanted an old nursery rhyme:

...loves me, she murmured, ...loves me not.

White petals fell, one at a time.

Would she have believed he loved her, 

Had that flower told her so?

Or would she have always doubted? 

He walked away; he’ll never know.

Warm light fell on her streaming hair. 

The day he left her had turned fair.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: John William Godward, He loves me, he loves me not 

(1896), oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons

Haiku for Day 1011

unhurried breezes stir

speckled sunlight, soft as snowfall

gentle afternoon

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

1010

every day  this not wanting to know 

yearning   for shelter from the raging storm

to wake up from our collective nightmare

fighting vague darkness   we long for sunrise

to chase away the encroaching shadows

seeking safety   we cling to crumbling hopes

while  around us  a rising tide surges

perched on our rock  crying out for rescue

have we forgotten  we know how to swim

and that shore is much closer than it seems

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

A silent world (Day 1009)

Suddenly   a silent world

no flutterings   

no singing

somehow 

all summer’s liquid sounds 

leaked   imperceptibly 

away  until 

today only golden leaves 

are flying   caught 

on a bright breeze

spiraling 

groundward among 

the bare trees creaking 

softly as they sway

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Photo: Jake Colvin via Pexels

Only a song (Day 1008)

When you look away

do you still hear him

When you forget her

does she disappear

If there’s no music

how can we be dancing

Across the road or

in another room

A window closes 

to keep out the rain

How do you name yourself 

when you’re alone

Without a choice

is there still right and wrong

Only a song can tell 

if you are singing

Only the morning proves

there once was night

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

The way they often do (Day 1007)

meandering deer graze neatly 

folded fields   crossing five miles 

downstream   from one orchard 

to another   the way they often do 

when autumn arrives 

and frost furs each bud and blade 

when there’s time enough 

to dwell on the sacrifice 

of woods and meadows   

of newly-built nests 

    and repurposed burrows   

of one last summer when fireflies 

rehearsed their evening display and 

the enfolding mountains   prophets 

one and all   pointed toward an ocean 

of seemingly boundless sky

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Albert Bierstadt, Indian Sunset: 

Deer by a lake (1880-90), oil on canvas

Smudged (Day 1006)

One morning all you 

hear are songs  rising 

on ragged winds  

capturing a shifting 

light along the path 

capturing a watery view

too cold too close 

too bright to be the moon   

and a simple afternoon 

grows more elaborate   

smudged around 

the edges  red as wax   

(c) 2019 by Hannah Six

Image: Claude Monet, San Giorgio Maggiore 

at Dusk (1908), oil on canvas

Taint by numbers (Day 1005)

One, for learning

just how bad...

Two, for persevering.

Three, still missing

what we once had.

Four—their end 

is nearing.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Altered public domain photo

Like Scarlett (Day 1004)

No words are swirling

In my head.

They’re sleeping.

(I know they’re not dead.)

What helps me,

When I feel this way:

Some time to read,

Some time to play.

Enjoy a treat, and 

A good night’s rest—

Delight’s an antidote 

For stress.

When all else fails,

I shrug it off, and say: 

Tomorrow 

Is another day.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

(Final lines inspired by Scarlett O’Hara, heroine 

of Margaret Mitchell‘s Gone with the Wind)

Invisible world (Day 1003)

Breeze-cooled coffee 

    beneath a cerulean sky

playing cat’s cradle with 

    the early hours

testing time’s elasticity 

    in these dog-days 

     of fear-fueled love

      and joy-tainted horrors 

light pausing to touch 

    each moment   windborne

russet and gold

in our hair   our laps   

    our hands   wildly

until the curtains fall back 

    into place 

       and we turn again 

toward the invisible world

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Needpix

Gray (Day 1002)

big Wyoming sky, rippling and bulging, mirroring the prairie highway before them, shades of mist and pearl, taupe and graphite, scudding from the west, driven by winds too strong to imagine

laundry-room floor she knows by heart, concrete, cracked and patched, coated with an easy-to-clean industrial paint to hide haphazard repairs and things she does not want to think about

old limestone church, where worshippers gather to offer prayers and gratitude, where she sits next to him, secretly waiting for answers to questions she does not yet know how to ask

handgun, so close to her cheek she can smell its metallic perfume, his arm unsteady as they hurtle up the expressway, wheels slamming potholes, expansion joints, his rage ricocheting off the dashboard, flying out her open window 

truck-driver’s face, just visible in the moonlight, when he first sees the demons he awakened, simply by changing lanes without a signal

feral cat, yellow eyes haunting her nights, speaking to her deepest sorrows and regrets, inviting her to the ghost-peopled world of what if and if only, where a blizzard becomes a name becomes a dream

rain-wet pavement on the day she walks home from the hair salon, with just enough time for a glass of rosé before she zips herself into a discount-store wedding dress that’s almost, but not quite, long enough

© 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

Shred the sky (Day 1001)

Maybe once 

beloved oceans 

will surge and calm 

this red-hot world

leaving a trail of 

treacherous ice-gray 

lakes  thrashing

like the sea  taking

without greed  keeping 

without devotion

Maybe one day 

we will shred the sky  

awaken

while driving home  

lights parting the darkness

facing Heaven 

and Hell head-on 

dispersing bleached-bone 

dunes in our wake   

shrinking neither from 

the familiar nor the new

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Lunablue4ever (CC BY-SA 4.0)

One Thousand Days

One thousand days 

have come 

and   like history   gone 

like freedom   never

granted   won

at unconscionable cost 

yet given freely 

away

What then is left 

to us

to say about 

these thousand days

our friends and neighbors

strangers   lost 

like love   or trust

dissolved 

into the blue

where only answers lie

Silence is star-strewn

skies   new snow 

at dawn

something pale

fluttering 

on fragile wings

these things whisper

But we must not 

speak 

quietly about these days

and nights  

each hour   now 

a razor   poised 

and we   exposed

can choose   

how this story ends

decide   as one   

or   under cover 

of excuses   slink 

into what

hell may come.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pixabay

Irretrievable (Day 999)

Two years ago, I might have—

I would have—but 

now, it is impossible.

No lies will be 

unspoken.

No victims will be

untraumatized.

No dead will be

resurrected.

No one will celebrate 

at game’s end.

No trophies will be 

awarded.

We have all, already, lost.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Tom Thai/Flickr

Hand-me-downs (Day 998)

Soon, each broad leaf will bronze and 

fall like a country song.

Soon, breath-thieving winds will sculpt 

tall drifts of snow, exposing Summer’s 

time-frayed hand-me-downs.

Outside, amid the browning, a vague 

poetry of silver curses consumes 

entire flocks of birds, who flutter idly 

to the ground, while we wait for this, 

too, to wither and blow away.

Perhaps we should look up more often.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Curiosities (Day 997)

Black metal chair, cold against the back of your legs.

Nobody wrote to me. Why can’t you just do something? 

How warm was it that day? What was I wearing?

A creepy older couple, but decorous. Not talking too loud.

Remember the forever summers stretched out before us?

I don’t even know any more. Guess I wish I could, too.

Looking back, it seems like we should have been happier.

But I am not hungry, and they didn’t stockpile my favorite 

marzipan fruit.

Is it ever enough? Do we ever feel like everything is right?

I have never in my life. All the complaining. Getting paid 

to stand around. Come on people. 

They call that contentment. Not that I’d know. 

The waitress keeps saying she has no idea.

It’s a crying shame. What with the blue sky and all. 

Because I wanted one. It was more out of habit. 

Looking at this man is making me feel something or other. 

The metal leaves a lingering imprint on your thighs. 

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

A cento, of sorts (Day 996)

She walks the length 

  picking up shells

unbeknownst to her  he lingers

leaving her dress in a heap 

  crashes into the waves

unwilling to admit defeat

gasping  emerging salty 

  as a seal  and as sleek

still   he waits  hands in his pockets

brushes clinging grains 

  of sand from her shoulders

though their final page has turned

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Pseudopanax (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Lost (Day 995)

How can we

live    like

this

ducking and covering

our trail 

of crumbs   snatched 

off bare ground

before 

we have a chance

to turn around 

again   so there is 

no way home

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: Detail of Hänsel und Gretel

by Alexander Zick via Wikimedia Commons

Shadow friends (Day 994)

Shadow friends

    houses darkened   

sleeping while you walk   

with fog-muffled footsteps   

they are 

    their own imaginings

not knowing 

they are 

    heavy clouds hanging low 

over rain-darkened streets   

gone by

   the time you wake

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere