Beach Fire (Day 328)

Freighters’ lights, like stars,

glimmer and swim

in the distance. Between swells, 

they fall from view. Our eyes 

track their progress, instinctively

seeking their reappearance

each time they drop into vast 

watery valleys below the black 

horizon. Watching driftwood burn,

we feel the cold sand dampening.

Nearby, waves tumble and hiss,

closer now than before. The tide 

is turning. We must go.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Aris_Tsitiridis

1: Him (Day 303)

Snowflakes fall like coins 

from a lurid coral sky. 

Left out in the cold, 

he chases them, 

grasps at the shattered air. 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: 12019 via Pixabay

Commuter (Day 295)

I remember when entire conversations, like trees, grew 

and bloomed, while you lit one cigarette after another, 

and I admired the fine, vulnerable bones of your bare feet.

I remember how, having plundered a seaside town, we 

collapsed, laughing, on a damp wooden bench, near 

a fountain glazed by the morning’s fog. 

I remember a hint of blue seeping in around the edges 

of the mini-blinds (softened with sheer curtains) while you 

got ready for work, and I for the empty hours without you.

I remember the 5 a.m. train, purring and spitting oily grit 

at the silent pack of commuters who waited, clutching 

travel mugs, shifting from foot to foot in the tepid rain.

And I remember sitting in the idling car, in the lightening 

parking lot, watching your train pull away.

(c)  2017, by Hannah Six

Image: WikimediaCommons

When the Magic Ends (Day 282)

When the magic 

ends

and the music 

winds down, find 

the one who’s still 

around,

helping you sweep up 

the fairy dust

and 

carrying dishes

to the sink. 

Choose him. 

You may not think 

so now, but he 

is the answer 

to those prayers 

and wishes—

the one 

who stays

after the party,

instead of leaving 

you

to clean up 

the mess

while he follows 

the rest of the crowd.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Wonderlane via Flickr