Windows – 8 (Avenues)
Will he (or she) find generous rooms, warm with art and soft with cushions, and a table laden for a feast?
Category Archives: Imagined Lives
Windows – 7 (Love’s Labour Lost)
The same arm curled around his woman’s waist as they moved together. The same arm caught up his infant daughter, held her warm against his chest. The same arm opened a door; the same arm closed it.
bed of coals
Wasn’t she beautiful, with her collection of contentments and quiet loves, her giving and receiving? Even if none were there to share it, tonight?
ghost-prints
With the moon still under the Atlantic, there were stars, and neighboring houses whose lone lights flickered between the trees, to light the way. The world was more shadow than path, and the shadows were filled with cricket sounds and other, more furtive, nighttime feet.
midthought
“… but I do begin my sentences mid-thought…” she thought; and thinking about thought was looking in a mirror that reflected another mirror.
Fog
He guessed, when he had fully wakened, and the dream’s scenery had begun to melt into the familiar features of his bedroom, that while she had been a major figure in the story, still it was a story, and it was only his.
Burning snow
As I stood under the shower’s spray this evening, allowing the warm water to wash away the day’s dust and travel, I found that as the dirt left me, so did peace and security.
Orpheus
That’s why I sang these songs: the art of writing down my name might call up hers…
Outside In
Outside the wind has risen, and here away from town, and near the sea, it seems to have risen with no uncertain fury, so the joints and timbers of the old converted barn that I call home creak and crack (again) like a frail ship on a muscular sea.
Our Sound
It’s not who she is that begs the lyric; not what he wants that’s the melody’s thread. Instead: when something stirs…
columns
One pillar was just within reach. Stretching her hand, the tips of her fingers ran over the smooth and the rough of the mosaic surface…
Windows – 5 (interiors)
at the brow of the hill a stone wall, a dun crown, and at its heel, a trail; from heel to brow the wander walked, pacing the arc the sun traced in the sky