Your Own Stories (Day 494)

just become 

quiet   a butterfly’s unfurling 

wings   your own stories

flutter within

listen   still as a snake 

about to shed her outgrown skin

do you hear the rustling

inside your walls   small

secrets   guests  some welcome 

some uninvited   nestling 

and settling in 

well-protected corners   notice

your narrator   is she trustworthy

how do you know

if what you hear is true

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image via MaxPixel

Holding On (Day 461)

Raspberry Beret.

Twenty-six flights of stairs.

Over and over.

Old proverb tells us:

Youth is wasted on the young.

Thoughtlessly squandered.

How else could it be?

It’s painful, living, loving.

If we knew, would we?

Lovers, parents, pets,

Smooth skin, stamina, joints, minds—

We learn to let go.

Think how tragic death would be,

If we died still holding on.

(c) by Hannah Six

Her White Whale (Day 389)

shaking her head at the modern world’s distaste 

for promises, she vowed instead to pursue her 

White Whale deep into the indigo mystery

to that end, eyes wide open, she dove headlong

into an icy pool of stars, and broke the surface 

again in a shimmering burst of breath and water

later, sinking into the multi-layered depths of midnight,

she found herself wondering if she wanted to 

awaken from the liquid solitude of dreamless sleep

but a ghostly fluke, like mermaid hair, beckoned, 

and she leaned into the sweet awareness of loving

the precious freedom of being neither here nor there 

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: iwona_kellie via Wikimedia

Missing our days (Day 350)

Growing older, is it 

as often about regret 

as it seems?

Nostalgia like an ache, 

missing our days and

our dreams because 

we cannot remember 

how to live 

the way children do? 

Trust me, 

it’s harder 

and easier than 

you know, spending 

your days missing 

other days, when 

all along your roots 

are cracking 

granite, seeking 

sustenance, sinking 

deep into your loamy soil, 

until you are 

bound

to your own time. And 

maybe that is the definition 

of wisdom.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: MaxPixel

Aura (Day 349)

Felt your presence 

    in my room 

      this morning, before 

I was fully aware, 

there,

pressing 

        like thumbs 

     against my eyelids, 

  and I knew:   you 

had come 

to spend the day

with me. 

(c) 2018, by Hanneah Six

Clean and muddy fingers (Day 343)

 

The sky fell upon them, 

sodden underbelly 

a vast, gray filet,

the sea darkening to slate,

churning waters flecked

with saline spittle.

She was in the garden,

kneeling on the grass

with her shears, gathering summer 

into a broad, petal-shaped basket,

which, in colder months,

would serve to carry kindling.

In bloom now: hydrangeas,

lush scoops of periwinkle 

and, her favorite, pink 

the exact shade 

of strawberry ice cream,

bushes sagging, heavy heads 

nodding under their burden.

He stepped through the gate

just as the clouds let go, 

releasing a torrential

exhalation of wind and water,

drenching the turbid world 

in an instant.

Three steps—he was at her side, 

reaching simultaneously for her 

and for the basket’s grip.

Their wet hands met, clean 

and muddy fingers intertwined,

As she rose, squinting at him 

through sheets of rain, smiling,

iron-gray licks of hair 

glued to her cheeks, 

each raindrop seemed to pause, 

silent, suspended.

And he realized that, to him, 

she had never looked more vibrant, 

more beautiful. Joy curled 

and swelled in his veins.

Then, with a whoop of exhilaration,

she took off running, 

toward the house.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Trail of Crumbs (Day 300)

We sliced the days 

thin as fluttering kite tails, 

savored every hour, and, 

in case we lost ourselves 

along the way, we left 

a trail of crumbs, remnants 

of a life that love consumed,

to guide us home 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Illustration for Hansel and Gretel by Alexander Zick (1845–1907)