If the stars could speak through skies at night,
And every shimmer held a dream in light,
Would we dare to listen, still and long,
To find the place where all our hopes belong?

If the trees could walk the world with grace,
And share the stories rooted in each place,
Would we learn to honor leaf and ground,
And hear in silence how all life is bound?

If the oceans rose to voice their song,
Revealing secrets they’ve held deep and long,
Would we dive into their boundless blue,
And join the dance of life in something true?

If hearts could speak without a single sound,
And feelings lost were suddenly unbound,
Would love then bloom, unshackled, wide and tall,
And bind all souls together, one and all?

If tomorrow came with no more pain—
Just golden calm behind the passing rain—
Would we step forward, fearless, full of light,
And paint our lives in every color bright?

lore dumps and warm stares
on a lighthouse bench, cold stone
the fog getting lighter, but sticking close
like a cool jacket wrapped
shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder
interrupted only with being seen

I was as sure as Summer at the end
it’s when you just know
what you never did before

you can crawl into my skin
and ill play fog
like a cool jacket wrapped around
lore dumps and warm stares

A tiny spider's silk unravels steadily, believing
It would be picked by hands so tender to its heart,
Instead of fortuital encountered
By a completely crushing stranger's palm.
The loosened strain that flows in open wilderness
Had better learn to weave a big, wide web,
Before it gets too sticky at the other end,
And guts are scattered all across the green duvet.

Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.

The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.

I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.

And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.

I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.

And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.

someone said,
“at least now you can heal.”
but healing feels
like folding laundry
for a house that’s half empty
and pretending it’s enough

I love how every month has different little poems!
Today - someone lived and wrote, wept and bled.
In June a great artist had something to say,
and now it's engraved into history for those with eyes to see.
In July it happens again. And it will happen in August too!
So July, hold me under your warmth - cradle me.
I am being strong, but I just need a break.
Take my hand into the sun's heat -
show me I can be exposed
without being burned!

C.M. 1/7/25