A Promise (557)

In the wee hours, 

somewhere along the way, 

I lost them. Just ran out. 

A tiny fish 

   in an endless ocean,

a poet, 

entirely off her words. 

They may never return,

   to comfort me 

when the world feels ugly. 

Or maybe,

   just maybe, 

like a pet bird who tired 

of its cage, they flew 

   out my window, and 

might be lured home with 

   a soft voice, 

   an aromatic treat, and 

   a promise 

of greater freedom.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Public Domain Pictures

Words Hit the Paper (Day 429)

The words hit the page differently when 

the light enters my room from the east   

letters tumble and scatter  landing as they 

may in heaps and clusters  later in the day 

I will find an hour or two  when I can linger 

and hold them  gaze fixed softly on an image 

in the middle distance  fingers folding and 

coaxing the rambunctious disarray until 

a gentle thrill of recognition wakes me to a 

poem  now revealed in its inevitable form

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Unknown miniaturist, The Monk Eadwine (c 1150),

 illustration on parchment, Trinity College, University of Cambridge