It is with urgency that the crickets chirp in each other’s gaps.
The wind rushes through the reeds on repeat,
as a lapping wave. And the owls insist
on crying out their rhetoric. Would that I had done
whatever it is that humans do with the vigor of their orchestra,
but they’ve taken the baton, and I will rest now
from whatever it is I did and didn’t do, the loudness of the night
layering reassurances atop my curling form that
even as I fall asleep, life continues on.
Alphabet Ravine 
Bel écrit sur la forêt, bravo!
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Merci beaucoup!
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Respite in the resting of a note,
still the sound lingers on,
cascading until gone,
and that’s all she wrote.
Lingering is a topic that has been with me this week.
Take for example, an old house, where multiple families lived, over time, and each year there were memories made, of holidays and such, and the premise is, those memories live on within the walls.
What if the structure burns, or is just torn down for something else to take its place?
Where do the memories go, Lydia?
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You always post things that require more brain power for me to respond to than I have at the end of my workday. 😉
Lovely question. You could include that itself in a poem. I’m thinking the images, textures, and smells of the building are merely like a key that unlocks the memories that dwell in the mind, and it’s best to create other keys (such as a journal or drawings) when/before the building disappears. 🙂
One might think they burn with it or decompose into the soil!
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You prose poems are so intricately woven…
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Thank you! That means a lot. I was never one to write prose poems, so I’ve tried to get into them. I admire Charles Bukowski’s style.
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🦋 WOW! Nicely orchestrated.
Great blog too. 😀
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Thanks so much! I’m so glad you’re reading and enjoying. ❤
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