The wind blows freely in the air,
as I sit and relax without a care--
Underneath a huge canopy of silk,
while munching on treats as I drink milk.

It floats and captures the breezy day,
this backyard canopy of yesterday--
Mother left it to me when she passed,
and now the memories always last.

A rainbow streaks across the sky,
catching moments coming from on high--
While I recall my days as a child,
when this canopy flowed, free and wild.

The summer sun is rising above,
as I'm cooled under the canopy of love--
A childlike vision comes into sight,
with mother holding my hand so tight.

The walls that are
invisible to the eye
are the hardest
ones to break.

You're just a memory—
fading like sunlight at the edge of day,
a flower wilting in the hush of fall,
a river whispering itself away.

And yet...
hope lingers on that fragile thread of what if—
But is it worth holding on,
if all that’s left is space
growing wider
between your name and mine?

He once wrote my initials—
S.C.—
on the back of his hand
in red ink.

Bold.
Unashamed.
A quiet rebellion
against forgetting.

I wonder if the ink
sank into his skin,
leaving a mark
the world couldn't see—
but I could feel.

Or maybe it faded,
washed away with the next rinse,
like so many promises
made in passing.

Still, sometimes I wonder—
when he looks at his hands,
does he remember me?
Or did that ink
only ever stain paper hearts
like mine?

Everyday another page
Is taken from the book of life
With no way to read ahead
And with that said, no looking back

You can dog-ear several pages
And be stuck on repeat
Because life is what you make it
In the way you daily read

You might think that if you skip past
A paragraph or two
Some of the trash you're dealing with
Won't come back to haunt you

You can read it in the finest print
Or large letter edition
Whatever way you read today
Try and make it your mission

To strive and be the best of reads
With each turning of the page
This open book for those who care to look
In what you daily have to say

(Maddy’s Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964)

I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.

Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.

Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.

Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
.
.
A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles

I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl