Seeking (Day 1167)

Mapping these hours

yesterday

and the day before

through turbulent waters

seeking  in the center

the stillness

within and without 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Together (Day 1166)

Breathe in, breathe out

(but not too close)

look up, look away

(from the news)

open a door, step outside

(preferably alone)

try to see the big picture

(now that is one long, dark tunnel)

the tunnel is still and cool,

paved with the footprints

of all who have gone before

yours will help guide those

who travel the same path

and, in the middle, 

   when you can see 

neither the beginning 

   nor the end

remember

you were never alone   

you will never be alone

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Crocuses (Day 1165)

Golden ginkgo curtain 

rustles   lingering 

starlight glowing beneath 

a closed door   never 

without love   gleaming 

like ice 

or snow-bound crocuses.

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Within these walls (Day 1164)

how much more we’re forced 

to see what we prefer to hide

when ill-humored time

twisting back upon itself 

wrests the day from our hands   

and sleep is hours away   

and waking just a handful more     

we pace  unable to forget 

these truths we hoped not to recall

finding ourselves   without respite 

face to face   within these walls 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Upstairs (Day 1163)

upstairs  voices surge 

furious footsteps  a thunderstorm 

these words I do not want to hear

these burdens I do not want to carry

heart pounding  I lie sleepless

long after silence descends

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Silence (Day 1162)

The silence lengthens   stretching

a courtesan who   in strange isolation 

from the rest of the world

somehow slept past nightfall 

and suddenly descends 

into the whispering darkness   sipping

slowly   tasting its promise

observing only the merest of formalities

sparkling in the midnight dusk   faithful 

to those swirling tides 

that neither save nor spare

she creeps steadily shoreward   a blaze 

born of a spark   barely making a show 

of beginning before allowing dawn’s 

unkempt currents to douse her flame

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Tea, hot (Day 1161)

Pouring, it burbles, 

a cheerful brook—leaves 

clenched fistlike, 

relax, unfurling 

in their steaming bath, 

and I, entwined 

fingers spanning 

that comfortable belly,

close my eyes in ecstacy 

at the warmth, 

a diamond in my hands. 

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Not one word (Day 1160)

Not one word of this poem

flies on dove-gray wings 

not one word gives 

sustenance to the hungry

it does not offer a soft place

on which to rest

nor does it provide a way

to get from here 

to there

but it does   it does

it does wave flag-like 

above green fields

it does sing   bittersweet

a timeless lullaby

it does speak 

in a voice that will be 

heard

this poem that insists on being

written

and someday   who knows

someone might understand 

what it is trying to say.

© 2020, by Hannah Six

What to do (Day 1159)

We do not know 

    what to do

with the perfection of this world

the heart-bruising beauty 

of spring — uniquely 

shattering 

the broken edges 

of sunset coming hard 

on the heels of a moss-green storm   

or June fireflies rising 

and falling

 — a curtain of syncopated stars

glimpses of sublimnity 

disturb the fragile heart   irreparable

yet craving   always   more

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Promised light (Day 1158)

alone in this quaking 

tunnel   not a hint 

of promised light 

but we are safe  

still   as if reclining 

among illicit violets 

enjoying a tender 

shifting twilight

tenebrous   here

alone in this

serious afternoon

dissolving into waiting

submerged 

in soft-edged pages

pleasantly yearning 

to move   to make   

more    to feel less 

transluscent 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 1157

Teasing out daylight

Snail-track hours wander away

Soon enough, the rain

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

And the news (Day 1156)

And the laundry

And the tires

And the news

And the milk

And dandelions

And everything 

    is closed

And the microwave 

    needs cleaning

And the kids 

    are home alone

And nothing 

    is the same

And there’s little 

    time for reading

And no cash 

    for craft supplies

And the world 

    is upside down

And late payments

And no sick days

And what’s fiction 

    and what’s fact

And still the moonrise

And the warm wind

And no one knows

And no one thinks

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

Note: Please remember that, for many 

(if not most) people, quarantine and 

time off are not welcome “quiet time” 

for self-discovery, journaling and making 

art. For those struggling to live paycheck 

to paycheck, such a perspective blithely

ignores the potential financial and 

personal devastation they face.

Nothing Extraordinary (Day 1155)

Beneath this warm, white vernal sky, 

a mist of green spreading through 

the remaining stand of trees, I notice

one exuberant cherry has emerged 

overnight, brave blossoms a fountain 

of pink against the winter-gray backdrop.

Tentatively testing their night song, 

combing the dewy, new grass for morsels, 

gregarious robins were eager to return.

Now, as chickadees, sparrows and finches 

trickle slowly back into the north, 

once-silent mornings sparkle with song.

Inside, the world is dim and narrow, but, 

beyond these open windows and doors, 

a hopeful world regenerates again, 

as if nothing extraordinary is happening. 

And I find comfort in knowing that, aside  

from our troublesome existence, nothing is.  

© 2020, by Hannah Six

Cento #5: Think of it (Day 1154)

if ever we ever feel 

unanchored   will we 

think of it as peace   

or something jagged 

as that country you wander   

your only music 

a sparrow’s song   

I don’t know 

this lingering day

outside   where you bring 

me   unseen ice 

consumes a thin blue sky

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 1153

unfathomable sky

a pre-dawn darkness traced with song

careless, nature persists

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Where shade swirls (Day 1152)

Where shade swirls

illuminate  just look 

how spring unfolds

with gentle words

honest and kind

her flashing wings

will sweep away

the shadows pooling in 

your eyes   your dreams 

and on your screens  

if you will only throw 

one window open 

wide enough for her to fly. 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

To the north (Day 1151)

Lavender clouds hover 

over gray green hills —

far to the north, a woman I know 

paints grasslands beneath similar skies

A photograph of a lighthouse rests 
on my mother’s piano —

decades ago, I climbed those very steps 

with a lover now nearly forgotten

From the other room, Strauss floats 
like rose-colored silk —

someday, I will remember this 

perfect moment and sigh

© 2020 by Hannah Six

The one (Day 1150)

Sometimes, at day’s end, 

I wonder who is there.

Are you 

my friend? 

Are you the one 

whose late night whisperings

trickle into my dreams

and onto my page? 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Unknown (Day 1149)

Unknown

this day 

leaves

nothing

and noise

and night

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Feels like... (Day 1148)

It may be wrong

But it feels like daffodils

Like the first snow

Or the last day of school

It may be wrong

But the river is rising clear

And the heady night

Is long and barely cool

It may be right

Because it feels like silence

Like a raindrop falling

Into a still blue pool

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Within reach (Day 1147)

What mystery tells her 

she must try to rise 

in some unfettered way

to fly above the noise 

and crowds

to face the revelation 

that too much is

sometimes not enough   

and too little   often perfect 

when what she wants 

is within reach   now 

that spring has sprung

the time has come to name 

what change she needs

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Winter Moth (Day 1146)

Who watches from the mirrored darkness

outside the well-lit room in which I rest, 

half-finished sweater in my lap, hands idle?

Who sees my idleness, this night, when 

bright snowflakes dance like summer moths

around the streetlamp’s pale pink flame?

Who considers such rosy light—beyond my 

frost-bordered window frame—that seems,

from where I watch, to burn without ardor?

Who wanders winter’s final stand, passing 

close in this darkening night, which I, 

protected from the cold, admire with delight?

Who wonders at my idle hands, the dreaminess

veiling my eyes, as I, myself, am wondering:

Toward what warm flame does that moth fly?

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Disjointed (Day 1145)

What tiredness soothes 

an empty heart   even when alone

come back to rest 

in the world   this sweet day 

of waiting   lean against the noise

and fear of taking 

too much   again you have   we are

forever waiting   not wanting 

to wake up   an afternoon in May   

afraid of our collapsing world   

this middle of a dream   how will it 

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Safety (Day 1144)

A corner turned   new street

hard at first   wasn’t it   

trust chipping at walls

redwood walks and hot coffee

remembering dense blue fog 

and a wedding beneath 

a fierce sun   in the distance

white peaks   laughter   wine   

guests and tears   so happy

some sad   because 

all you wanted was to be safe

and safety was all that you had

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

At the end (Day 1143)

She reaches out 

to paint the night

where music lives

and at the end 

a door ajar  

welcoming the moon

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

Haiku for Day 1142

Daylight dims and fades

Glowing leaves grace somber skies

Softly, rain begins

(c) 2020 by Hannah Six

You were gone [for Marta R.] (Day 1141)

I woke one night and you were gone. 

Sitting upright, covers heavy over 

my drawn-up knees—you were gone. 

The darkness was a comfort, and I knew 

you were in it, lingering nearby in case 

I reached for you. But you were gone. 

And, as blue faded to gray, a new day 

rising like mist from the grass, I breathe in, 

breathe out, and you were gone. Sunlight 

crept into the garden, gilding the trees 

from the tips of the highest branches, 

sliding down the papery bark. 

It glistened, and you were gone. 

A hummingbird visited the feeder outside 

your window, wings a blur, tiny beak piercing 

red plastic flowers—he knew no better—

and you were gone.

Gone were your African hills, glazed with green 

and veiled in a violet haze. Gone the beasts, 

large and small, like your laughter, lurking 

in shaded corners for so long. 

Gone were the blues of Biscayne, and the dreams 

of driving north, and north where you will be 

remembered long after you are gone. 

Those you adored, the luckiest among us, 

shoulder the burden of your blessings, compelled 

to carry on, to love as you loved, to protect 

what you cherished, because you are gone.

Last night, I dreamt I woke, and you were here 

again, voice a warm ribbon of light, making little 

of the distance between us. And warmed by 

a blazing sun, I asked for wisdom (never in short 

supply where you dwelled) and you said: 

I am gone, and I can hear you. 

I am gone, and I can see. 

The shadows and the lights 

are one. In the depths, where 

warm water grows cold, 

I am the shaft of daylight 

that guides you to the surface.

And awake, knees drawn up beneath my blanket’s 

weight, I felt the fluttering loss behind my eyes.

This is a spring you will not see—this tree, this bird, 

this flower. The golden light drenching the leaves 

belongs to a word world where you no longer are.

Grief is a thing that swims, and surfaces from time 

to time, to breathe a cloud, inhale love, submerge again, 

and all this is well, and all is well. And still, when I woke, 

you were gone.

(c) 2020, by Hannah Six

On Sunday, March 1, 2020, I learned my beautiful friend, Marta Reilly, 

had died suddenly at her home in Florida. I will treasure her memory 

and wisdom forever, and will love and miss her always.