Counting the months until
spring leaves unfurl though
the hills and fields are green
Anticipatory winter raining
on autumn’s rich parade
Would summer be as exquisite
if it lingered to the last with
a prolonged introduction
to temper February’s fade
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Down the hall the grownups mingle
and smoke thin blue trails rising
like unexpected words or quiet fears
that twist their faces in the glass
evening melts away — an April snowfall
— the clock strikes once twice
voices fade a tiny bird fills the hall
with joy triumph a brief song
of gratitude and another match flares
(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
And those volumes thousands
of words better left unsaid
they burst open one night
covers ajar pages abandoned
leaving a sea of clues
and just the thought
of missing you showed
the corner we had turned
on that new street life was odd
at first wasn’t it the soft ringing
of trust being chipped and
chipped away the razing of walls
that took no time at all to build
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Light me a sunset
peaks aflame
with coral & gold
only because I asked
bring me tomorrow
bright as childhood
& sweet dressed up
as someday soon
leave it at my door
& ring my bell
then run away & run
away & run
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
The sun is shining on our table
outside, in the corner of the patio.
Are you there, looking for me?
Shade slides across pavement
as afternoon fades into evening,
heat melting into a softness
that quiets the city’s heartbeat.
Are you still waiting for me?
Nearby, in a brick-walled shop,
shelves lean under the weight
of aging books, tended by an old
gray cat and a cantankerous man.
Maybe I will find you here?
Perhaps you page through a slim
volume of poetry, or admire faded
watercolors of the California coast.
Have you found what you sought?
As I approach, your eyes focus more
slowly than they used to, then
sparkle in sudden recognition.
How will we find each other now?
You browse slowly, so I wander
with you, companionably, until
we succumb to the cafe’s siren call.
Could we visit it, just once more?
Someday, for you, for me, there
will be no more waiting. We will
take, forever, our own sweet time.
© 2020, by Hannah Six
Slowly spring seeps
out of the day
already turning silver
around its edges
fading to rain and mist
after one brief taste
of warmth—a promise
of blooming flowers
gentle evenings
hovering briefly on
the cooling air
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Image: Suzuki Harunobu, Snow (1769),
woodblock print, via Wikimedia Commons
you will never be alone
in this world
even when lost dwelling alone
in the work
drafting the facts of a life
even when once again
inhabiting the vivid dream
of childhood or listening
to leaves of poetry whispering
among the knotted roots
of prose and never
when you sense approaching
mystery the beloved
who finds you in a sheltered
corner of the palest cove
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
Public domain image
I do not want to hear
about planets and satellites,
astronomy and outer space.
Instead, let me continue
to linger at my window,
watching the patient moon
make her slow progress
across the darkening sky.
Let me continue to believe
she is my friend.
(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
Image: PxFuel
she told me remember
draw the blinds
when the light fades write soon
a letter on fine paper
the sun came out the clouds
in your half script blown
away by a cold new wind
years ago remember
the minty taste of a stamp
mercurial it seemed to melt
and curl at the corners
and the light changed remember
press down hard at the edges
or it might slip away
(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
Stillness envelops
delicate a shell-blue sky
gentle as sadness
or a dove’s round song
pale mist rising subsiding
(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
How do you tell
your story do you
start at the beginning
do you know
the ending before you
take a single step
wondering what waits
around the next corner
or over the next rise
when you wake
in the early hours
does your day lay flat
as a map before you
or do you leave room
now and then for
(c) 2020, by Hannah Six
I left the door open, and a poem
slipped in. Starved for attention, thin
as paper, crumpled and rattling, it hid
in a corner of my room and waited,
patiently, for me to slow down, or
perhaps I would drift into a reverie,
where it might find me, and lead me
down a winding path. Soon enough,
I paused near a window, to watch
the afternoon sunlight falling, just so,
through a curtain of leaves, and the poem
pounced. Is it any wonder, that I found
myself, pen in hand, scribbling furiously
to capture the fleeting creature before
it flew away? Is it any wonder that, ever
since, I find myself lingering
near a certain window,
at a certain time of day?
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Konstantin Somov, Open door on a garden (1934),
oil on canvas, via Wikimedia Commons
shy snow angel peaceful
and pale sleeping child
sinking drifting
into bright depths
unknowable pierced
by streaks of brilliance
sweet as wine
tap tap tap
in each a cloud complete
taut surface
beckoning
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Pixabay
above gray below
shadowless these shadowlands
concrete between clouds
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
