Behind almost all things
Where the trees meet the edge of the frame
It could have been not this but that
In the distance is a darker shape
Its  position decided on a collection.


Falling like snow without regularity
The canvas surface is patches of colour
Horizontals and verticals intersect
The park with its green avenues
Glides in and out of a century of stories.


Its conclusion resting
On a final brush stroke.

Love Mary xxxxx

A life without problems is something that we all secretly wish for.
I think more than we realize, problems is what makes us who we are.
Every single day it's a battle, whether we know it or not.
We dress in our armor, shoulder blades and helmets.
Made out of steel to protect us from the world and from one another.
We charge head first into a fight, blinded by adrenaline.
And get torn down to the bones. We can see your skeleton.
All of your deepest aspirations, the love and hatred all blended into one.
Displayed out on the floor for everyone to see.
This isn't the person I wanted you to be.
Who are you? Silence abounds, the decisions have become so muddled.
The door has been shut.
Take a deep breath, try again.
Once again, you put on your armor.
Sliding on the metal chest plate and helmet, you feel redeemed.
There was nothing in this world that could hold you back.
Or so you thought, you were so sure that you would succeed.
You were so sure that nothing in this world could stop you.
And that any foe you ever met would just leave you alone.
You were wrong, and I was a fool to believe you.
I sat idly by while you fought in the war, not saying a word.
I was too afraid, terrified really that you would come home too soon.
I listened as you rambled on about your buddies and your struggles.
I enjoy the way that you strung words into a sentence in a manner that was so elegant.
You told me that, everything was going to be okay, as long as you were in control.
Speak only if spoken to, you're wrong, I will speak whenever I please.
I prepare for a final battle. I slowly put on the mask of a warrior.
You stand up tall and look down at me and laugh for you underestimate my tenacity.
To you, I was nothing more than a memory.
The bell rings and the fight commences.
Two shots at my face.
Three shots down the drain.
Four shots, and you scream out my name.
Five shots, I’m tired of your little game.
Six shots, I will no longer cower in shame.
You taught me what it was like to have freedom.
The freedom to live, the freedom to explore, the freedom to be me.
Why did you take it away? I ask with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I fought for this life, I fought for this love, and I fought for my choice.
A world where I cannot speak, is a world not worth living in.
Because in this world, I have chosen to fight for my voice.

O wing’ed messenger of happiness,
Aloft among the pollinating flowers,
At last you have returned from Mexico
And warm months there among soft latitudes
Where little birds can make a holiday
Far, far away from withering Arctic winds.

O tiny traveler, what souvenirs
Did you declare to customs at the Rio Grande?
South winds to tell the flowers to wake up
And Rosaries of morning fogs to bless
The yawning grasses with a morning drink,
And fresh new sunlight for the industrious bees.

O buzzing and impatient little friend!
Just wait a minute, your breakfast is coming -
The old glass feeder washed and packed away
In harvest-rich October’s golden light
Must be recovered and refreshed for you,

And

How good it is to have you home again.