Mirror (Day 292)

Shivering mirror

petals punctuate 

each breath  rising

and subsiding

rippling outside-in  

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: AdrianKirby

Before 1980 (Day 235)

Lake-shore picnic lunch

Among beloved strangers

Snowfields in summer

Memories drift, floating home

Spirits caught in ash and stone

In memory of my uncle, Gordon H. Fiske, who passed away this morning.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Lyn Topinka

Summer's Song (Day 225)

Dry, sharp grasses bend.

Summer whispers, familiar heaven waits.

Stolid ponds gaze skyward.

Tiny blue-bellies do pushups on warm rocks.

Banal toads sigh among singing frogs.

(c) by Hannah Six

This Day (Day 164)

Paper ribbons, twist around 

themselves, frolicking stretching, 

gathering armfuls of roses 

in their wrinkled embrace, like joy 

softening a careworn face.

Beautiful clouds, a chapel-sky

of fat cherubs on an expanse 

of of eye-piercing blue, 

laugh as if the view exposed

the greatest joke ever told around

a campfire, or a picnic table.

This day, bedecked in falling stars

and sparkling wands, is ours, 

alone, to have and hold, an uninvited 

guest, a mystery, a blessed dream,

a collective past enraptured 

by tomorrow’s history.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Photo: Independence Day 2009, northern Indiana, Joel Harter

Luminarias (Day 156)

 

Clinquant luminarias twist the heavy

heat,

sending strange spirals of scented 

smoke

climbing lazily toward the dancing

stars

reflected in the water’s tender 

veneer.

From time to time, winds work the

surface,

the way a gentle breath stirs and

lifts 

the silk-fine strands of hair along your

neck

when we whisper together in the living

darkness.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six