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the little house in August…
the little house nestles in the yellow grass ringed round in whirs of songs of endless summer insects sits waiting silent in the soughs quiet in the sweet airs as they kiss their August songs against...
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breathing
you steal the breeze and there is nothing stirring left to remind me what is breathing and in the dark hours the desert trembles green between the sorrows and the seams remembering the silence of trees...
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light resides
light resides in the quiet crook of your elbow were I to unbend it or raise my head from where my hair loves the smooth turns of you it would surely escape fly out the open window pulling along behind...
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there is something that has been lost
there is something that has been lost the elms tell it when the wind is high and twisting through the yellow leaves with the restless uncertainty of long-parted lovers and mid-arabesque a cloud of...
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wisteria
the unfinished fence stands several feet yet from the wall as if it too paused to gaze at the wisteria © Sarah Whiteley I am utterly in love with the spring this year. I am blessed with beautiful...
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I know when it is I am burning
I know when it is I am burning - when the sparrow in my throat bursts free from the fretful gravity of kisses nearly pressed but not and when gazes glance away from what has not yet been but is almost...
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gone to blue
should they ask, I have gone to blue, I have gone to green stillnesses, to the bright-lipped lake where the reeds still recall that the wanting is often greater than ever the having, and that some days...
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that the mountain is
I am not much at peace these days nothing sleeps, not even the stone of the mountain, though I find I can slow my heart the nearer I am to its sky-graced peak to be alone here is to be still from the...
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how could I be lonely?
alone, how could I be lonely? in January, the mountain sleeps but also will wake to shake loose its winter mantle it is easier out here to cease to believe in edges, to deny the demarcations that...
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*
the wind and I walked, and let the sun sleep in just a few minutes more, – just this once – so that we might hear our stray-dog thoughts before the interrupting layers of birdsong © Sarah Whiteley
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observation
December’s iron door has opened and the trees seem more deeply rooted, tucked further into stillness winter may heave its bitter winds, yet the trees depict the difference between moving and being...
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