I cry for you in those moments

when I feel your despair (my lost child),

in those moments

when fear overtakes,

overruns,

overrides

thinking--

when memories burst

through dams and walls

carefully constructed.

(I have had years of practice)

Panicked,

on fire--

flee

the death that waits

in the darkened corner

of your reptilian smile.

(You did this to me—to her)

And the pity,

the real pity--

You don’t know--

Can’t understand---

That I

(and she)

will pay forever

for your sin.

I cry for me.

copyright/all rights reserved AudreyHowitt 2012

A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.


Dry plank kissed with snow,
you sit quietly awaiting the spring
when children will find you
and laughter abounds.
Until then, sit in the silver silence
of dusted snow,
wind caressing your gnarled wood
as you watch over wood pile beneath you.


Dizzying, the canopy of leaves sways above
as toes touch sky
leaving the ground
far below.
Sun glints off leaves
and filters the new breath of spring’s promise
as grubs burrow deeply
confessing dark secrets to succulent earth.

Wood warms to the syrup of summer sun
twisting through shady pine
the still air weighty in  
somnolent afternoon.
Pine needles blanket the scuff
where small feet have
leapt from earth,
trading fear for the promise of freedom .

Cold air bites and nips
as it pulls leaves desultorily
to ground around you.
Days shorten.
Wind sharpens.
Few attempt flight now.

A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.

Day cools into evening.
Its long tendrils wrap into shadow
as Day lets go its hold,
submissively.
Withdraws its heat--
Moon awaits her journey yet.
And in this in-between time,
this time I love best,
with its sense of sinking down
toward ground,
of gradual slowing,
I wrap up the remains of my day
and turn on my favorite reading light,
pull open my notebook
and let pencil fly as it must--
until soul has returned to body
and the moon rises.

the harmony of discordant tunes

infiltrates mind

closed to thought

strewn against wind

in the onslaught of scattered

steely voices

attuned to this one alone

messages of self-loathing

that medication covers over

the bandage merely adequate

a stale, small blanket

wooley

euthanize thought

unapologetically strident

so that this one

can finally

sleep

dreamlessly

she wipes flour from her apron

and her heart breaks a bit more

crumbling

with each new batch of cookies

prepped and baked

(No Valentine's Day cookies this year)

With each loaf wrapped

her tears add salt to dough

the flavor of lost love

she wonders what will become of her

as butter folds itself

into flour

hiding

melting away

until nothing is left to moisten the dough

Icing glides out onto surface

slick and sweet

as she frosts

white hot anger

of betrayal

knives at the ready

she cannot touch

she fears

like little lives

torn out of a comic book

blades infused with grief

she turns back to flour, sugar, butter

and folds them

over and over again.