Afterlife

A month after the pills and the ambulance,
after days of delirium and needles and tubes,
after a week spent stripping myself bare,
body and mind and soul,
in the presence of uncounted, unfamiliar
doctors and nurses and counselors,
I am alive,
I am grateful,
I love and am loved,
and I have found hope once more.

For Paul

The sun sets, setting the sky afire with hope’s final, vibrant farewell. Night falls, bringing unending darkness. A branch snaps beneath the cold weight of silence, a perfect echo of my dying heart.

After Midnight, Unrest

I watch your fitful sleep and imagine
reaching into your chest, lifting
the chainmail of anger from around
your tender and tattered heart,
cupping that tired muscle
in my warm hands, unraveling
my atoms, letting them flow over
and into your flesh, knitting closed
the wounds I’ve caused until you feel
only peace.

Midwinter Dreams

He returned at the solstice, ice flecking his beard, the scent of wind clinging to his coat, starlight in his eyes. Goosebumps raced along my skin at the brush of his cold fingers against my cheek, and joy and passion stirred to life within the barren earth of my heart, where they had lain like sleeping daffodils during his absence. His lips met mine in a kiss that tasted of firelight and wood smoke, of cocoa and nutmeg. He was all the comforts of home and hearth, the ephemeral beauty of falling snow, the thrill of anticipation sparked by a wrapped gift, and in his arms I bloomed like winter jasmine.

Written for the Her Heart Forms poetic prose prompt “sleeping daffodils.”