All the colors
Of this earth,
To make into
All the colors
Of this earth,
To make into
“If it rains,” she said.
“It pours,” he answered.
They laughed and touched palms
The barriers that divide
Not keeping them
“And when it shines,” she said,
“It glories,” he responded.
She grinned and then the corners
Of her lips
Shook and her palm pressed
And her eyes unleashed a
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
“I’m almost ready
For the transplant.
My cells will welcome yours
Into my own.
As they had
In the womb.
It is like coming home.”
Where faith remains in morning’s dawn,
There will not fade
The hope of light,
On this Earth Day
As we are all
Blue around the fingertips
Blue around the lips,
Blue in oceans, and
In the reflections of the deep,
Blue in sorrow
Blue as sky lift
To the reified aqua
May we rise
Like the sun,
And not forget how
Help each other
They didn’t know what they could do. What’s left of what they had.
So they rode the day in minute steps, a hand in tender hand.
They sought the light as morning came.
They danced into the night.
Because they knew no ban could
What is allowed.
For RDP Tuesday: Ban
So far all went according to plan.
Part serendipity, part preparation, part desperation. Sheer stubborn, too. She needed all of it.
She slunk around the building, her heartbeat almost drowning out the hum of voices reverberating in the air. She used to find the monotone of prayers soothing. Now it was the buzz of wasps.
Thomas had promised to keep any from straying. Promises were at most hopes in the Commune, but indeed the path seemed clear. Where normally there would be at least one man leaning against the door in fake calm that nonetheless effectively barred the exit, there was naught but empty space. The guards imbibed.
She quickened her pace. She’d have to time it perfectly. The once-daily pass-by train was her only chance at freedom. The rails shook. No one left and no on came on the bare platform. She leaped.
Prosery prompt quote: “No one left and no one came on the bare platform.” Edward Thomas
There was something she didn’t share, but knew.
She held it, close, against her heart. A snuggle for her spirit. They could not take away what they did not realize she understood.
So she hid her comprehension. Her perceptions. Her realizations that what was presented as truth, was not.
Real Truth, that which resonated with her soul, was different. It sang.
She’d been quite young when she’d learned how to discern the babble from the song. It hadn’t been easy to maintain Truth, to blanket her face with masks of complacent adoration. Still she labored at it, keeping hope afloat.
For the RDP Sunday prompt: Truth
” … And that is when the sun became the liquid gold …” Marianna tucked the blanket tighter around the child and bent to kiss the flaxen head. The short soft hairs tickled her lips. She hadn’t yet gotten used to the severe buzz cut. She resisted touching her own head.
“…and in the morning?” the little one murmured, half-asleep.
“It will turn itself back into an orb and rise into the dawn …”
The almost translucent eyelids fluttered open once to rest on the flaming horizon, before closing, heavy, onto the small cheeks. The girl’s breathing deepened and slowed in time with the surf, arms secured around a well-loved doll.
Marianna stared at the reflection of molten lava on the water, listened to the murmured rush of the waves, rocked on her heels, and hugged herself.
At least the weather’s holding.
The child turned. An arm slipped out of the protection of the blanket and Marianna tucked the slim limb back under the covers, securing the doll where it could not be seen. It was a forbidden toy, yet Marianna could not bring herself to discard it. Not when so much had already been lost. She swallowed, and her hand rose of its own accord to feel the expanse of her head, the hair no longer there.
It was the least of it. Better they be seen as male, anyway.
The sun sank, gold, into the sea. She thought of the bedtime story and of the simple acceptance of young minds. Of the trust, the effervescent hope. Her own breath deepened as her daughter’s face at rest loosened a coil of tension in her chest into tendrils of comfort.
They’d made it this far. The beach was secluded. The trees and darkness offered their own respite. She, too, needed sleep.
May morning come, she thought. She lay her head on their pack of belongings and spooned the child against her heart. The last of the light licked the dampness from her cheek. May we safely see tomorrow’s orb rebirthed.
He said the world’s come to an end.
“Not quite,” she noted,
“For it keeps revolving.”
Her hand stayed warm
On his chest.
“Uninterrupted sun and set,
The dawn and birth,
Are their own continuity.”
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