There’s a coolness hanging low in this air and her face hides behind a blur of gray. These mists have a language, a silent movement, present and past intertwined, both moving, source and echo. Their chatter, a cloak, conceals sky and edges of definition. Until I make it over her shoulder, a mountain pass. The mists let go and her silhouette interrupts the blue. Ground as dusty as summer, on the edge of dry pines, timberline only a touch away.
Near the trailhead.Looking west, as I leave the lake behind.
Above, only the clouds seem to move. Here, on this ground, dampness hangs upon the forest. Inside there is a small circle, a scar, a mix of rough and smooth, a bareness like a graveyard where ghost trees stand like giant bones, whitened, still hanging onto their grain, exposed–waiting for the healing of seasons, the rains, the snows, the sun, while settled inside a plan of what is wild and what is not.
How this image was created This is a low resolution photo taken at sunrise featuring a treeline and sky. The photo was printed and placed underneath a partially frozen plate of water. A high resolution image was taken of that then cropped.
Those old dresses… what you once wore and how you wore them, how you fit into things, the way they felt. There was the comfortable one and the one you had to wear on certain, special occasions. Now, just familiar strangers. That old blouse that used to be your favorite, cream colored but had that small speck, a stain you hid under a button, a brooch, or a sweater. If it was noticed, you had a few stories prepared. You had to have reasons ready. There’s the old coat with that inner lining you replaced, hemmed twice, but it kept fraying. It had such raw edges like a fringe. If the weather warmed, you had to carry it on your arm and it became a small burden. On those days, you asked yourself why you brought it in the first place. It was like two dresses sewn together when you only paid for one. On the bottom shelf of the old wardrobe, there's a newspaper lining. It's torn and faded, the type nearly gone. Within its mess of creases, folds, and holes you barely make out a number followed by the words killed in action. As you decide which clothes to keep and which ones to discard, you think about lining the bottom shelf with something different, something without ink… this time.
The rose garden is built up of paddy-like fields, levels of flower beds featuring various cultivars. Perched on the side of a forest hill, the garden overlooks the city. The wind hangs onto its cold bite, though winter’s mask begins to melt, revealing scuffs and wounds in the tender ground. A few Lenten roses are in bloom and there is a surprise mist. It smells of new rain and water beads lie upon handrails. The colors of the garden are mixed with grays. Thorns twist their way between chunks of wet bark dust near black in color and the cold grass is as green as spring. Here, not long ago, when warmth lingered, hands were held during walks, marriage vows exchanged, and secrets told. Now, there’s only the sound of a leaf blower and the faint tapping of a runner’s shoes upon cement. The city below pokes its skyline out of rain clouds. When the clouds lift, a mountain stands in the distance. You can see it above the city from the garden glowing, reflecting the sunset, a soft pink. Memories of music and voices are caught within its silence. I try to listen. The city between the mountain and the garden has its share of pain and privilege. I am found as you are, somewhere between both. There’s an amalgam of perceptions written into its streets trailing off (seemingly) with a dash stroke by a pen. No periods necessary. Images don’t need them. Thoughts are thorns and blooms. I see another winter rose. The leaf blower moves further away singing in waves of crescendo/decrescendo. A distant drone, strangely comforting.
You look at me as only a face A weakness, caught mute behind a smile Deaf to the humming inside me That shakes with the noisiest silence In the form of a life, a thought, a hope, a desire A song you have known Perhaps forgotten, forced to ignore This vibration is not only inside me But a tremor running through all our fault lines
You walk past me down cold streets As if maddened, a fear In your eyes Repeating what has been recited An instruction, an ideal, a myth I then transform…into A stranger, a wanderer Walking towards you That is when the weather Takes my song away The storm strangles me In this street, my street Full of wind and gusts
Is it that you are bored of peace? That you must rebuild, rename, revert Without regard and respect of sovereignty And soul, the soil we share To reshape me, erase me, regardless Of our old roots that once intertwined Peace to you is just someone’s else’s prize to own And me, with only my hands To shape the outlines of life Humane, our humanity, our blood and bone
Can’t you hear me at work? While you treat me with this suspicion Grown inside your gut I sculpt Asking only that you look at The art of our likeness.
The water is cold near this spring and I watch the first flakes of late autumn snow land on tree branches. The flakes form a textured coating resembling an artist’s touch. They fall like ashes playing amongst a thick mist hugging the forest. The mountain is somewhere behind these trees, somewhere behind these foothills. Wild mist is elusive, skittish, a feral kind of weather with no city lights to reflect the symmetry of urban yellows, greens, and reds. The mist fools you into believing this stream does not follow a path of least resistance, but it does, even if it looks like it’s wandering, like a fragment, a lost sentence the mountain has thrown down upon uneven parchment. Soon the snow will cover everything, branches will be weighed down and the only thing seen is the creek slicing its way through white. I cup my hands, holding fingers together…tight. There’s a seam where they meet, one hand layered over the other.
Images by me.
To be Published Schedule Rooted Literary Magazine - 12-31-2025 Juste Milieu - Issue 19 - 2 Items! Winter 2025 Press Pause Press - Volume 13 - Fall of 2026
Published Muse-Pie Press - Issue #52 Fall 2025 https://www.musepiepress.com/
Watching November. Stories of leaves and lives, the paths of weather and wind. The naming of storms as they move across oceans. Characterized. Rummaging inside the stories, among their array, thoughts detained by tracking their descents, following the arc of their flaws. Outside, the leaves are in wet piles, soon to be gathered up in a blend of red and gold from clutter to compost. There is no catharsis here. Only fiction contains them. The blue jay parents who caused such a fuss protecting their young last spring are still around. Quiet now. One of them still tilts her head, listening.
Rain falls hard Upon paved cities of fortune Dressed in gowns of glass. Once she had thought cities held melodies That singers know.
Now that she has sang Her throat seems parched Yet melodies still pour From lung and breath And her heart Looks in upon itself Even if only as metaphor.
Lazy Concrete – Image is mine as all of them are. Click on image to enlarge.
Late summer sun caught Inside a young fall Pokes a warm beam of light Through a window, stirring up A ballet of dust within A slow tangle of choreographed chaos Dampened only by early evening’s Crisp air hinting of shorter days
The first fallen leaves Curled, cooked and crumpled By autumn’s summer mask Resemble large beetles who scurry like scarabs Upon sunbaked sidewalks Dancing with determination until Fall’s chill settles into season
MoonCat 