There is a
buzzing to my
busyness.
My mind refuses
to be at ease.
It happens when I
try to
read or sleep.

Doing Always.

Where did the
playground go?
I think it split for
Brazil with the
squirrels.
We are all nuts.

She is more than fur and purr,
more than the soft weight curled at my feet.
In her green eyes,
lined in nature’s own ink,
is a quiet knowing,
as if she has read the stars
and carries their secrets in her gaze.
Her heart is pure. She loves deeply.

Her presence hums like an old song,
a melody of alleys and warm hands,
of survival and trust hard-won.
She is striking not for her beauty alone,
but for the story she wears
like a second coat.

Look long enough,
and you will see
a soul,
fierce and tender,
choosing me every day.

If you break my heart.
Will you mend it.
Will you wipe away the many tears.
That I shed for only you.
Will you replace the light that shone forth.
As my eyes lingered only on you.
Will you fix this broken vessel.
That was perfect when you met it.
Or will you walk away.
And say, let's just call it a day

A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.

If there are infinite worlds,
there must be one where umbrellas never close-
hinges locked open like stubborn jaws,
gape-mouthed against walls in patient herds.

No one in their twenties owns one,
their hamster-cage apartments
too small for such luxuries.
They ask for rain jackets on birthdays.
Mary Poppins still drifts down Cherry Tree Lane,
her umbrella never folding,
only floating.

Children carry slips home
for violating umbrella laws,
forging signatures in loopy ink.
The Morton Salt girl wears a slicker,
yellow as a warning flare before the flood.

My mother walking me to kindergarten in rain,
transparent vinyl dome above our heads-
I, the opposite of a fish in its tank.
Her hair plastered to her forehead
by the time we reached the door.
Everyone looks most beautiful
with rainwater running down their face.

In the open-umbrella reality,
time can walk backward-
you can unwater a plant,
unpeel a clementine,
un-kiss someone.
Endings lift again,
fabric billowing, as if the story
had been left open in the wind.
Heather and Mike find the road out.
Rosemary tips the bassinet.

There, perhaps, neither of us was born.
What lay between us
stays open too long,
collecting rain until it sags,
slow and certain, like sugar
in the first storm.

I feel it pull
on me,
im not meant
for it,
the weight
of love

Upon mountains high,
the peaks arise, a jagged crown
against the skies.

With silent grace, they watch the
land, a timeless and majestic stand.

And nestled deep within their hold,
a river's story unfolds.

It carves a path, a silver thread,
through verdant valleys,
softly spread.

The water sings a gentle song,
as it tumbles peacefully along.

Reflecting clouds and sun's bright
gleam, a living, winding, liquid dream.

The valley floor, a vibrant green,
the most serene and lovely scene.

Fed by the river, cool and clear,
that whispers secrets to the air.

So high above, so far below,
the mountains stand, the waters flow.

The mountains are a symbol of
freedom and choices we make,
and the rivers song is a reminder
of where we've been.

A perfect harmony they keep,
while all the sleeping world dreams
the river constantly streams.

©️ 2025 By Amanda Shelton