A year is a single white cell
In combat –
bloody, miserable, hurt.
Yet the war has just begun.

A year is a punctuation,
a flick of ink
Barely visible, crucial,
indistinct, indispensable.

A year is twilight,
the corners of shadow,
the shallows of sadness to come
and nothings to experience.

A year is a gray petal
cleaving itself from past and future;
time has lost its meaning.
It flutters aimlessly.

A year is nothing,
does nothing to pain,
goes nowhere from death.
Her weak, bony hands are still in mine.



Clouds falling into line,
falling into beat with the rest of the world.
Gentle brushes of white
on a wide canvas of baby blue.

Against that: red
within reds. Yellows among gold.
Oranges, greens, browns
from one to the other end.

Fluttering the colors: a whisper.
Crisp and invigorating. Listen.
It speaks a warning
of the cold white coming.

With the whisper: a murmur.
Persistent. Gay or taunting?
I could never decide
for the language of rivers
is impossible to transcribe.

Privy to the murmur: a girl.
Wide, brown eyes like shutters.
Click, click, click. Memories
of autumn and her mysteries.

via Vegetal


It is not a hole,
but a gaping pit between black and white.
Gray. Colorless.
Black stuck in its shadow-
Me stuck in that darkness.

It is a shiver that starts in the heart.
A cold that isolates.
Silence that blocks sound and color.
A sea of air that drowns with every breath.

It is a sudden drought that cracks the lips.
It’s sanity seeping out of those cracks.
It’s the hope that escapes with sanity,
The life that crumbles in the absence of hope.