I sink into this sweet moment
not of lightning and hail
but soft unveiled convection warmth
of the south
in early afternoon
of winter.
I find my center
here in time
more precious than rubies or sparkling of diamonds
what a crime
presumption
I will persist
in it
this gift
this present
time.

When nighttime is hit with a winters storm
And I realize I am not alone
When others run for the comfort of light
And I sit calmly and delight
Without the need of a candles warmth
The storm brings the difference
That makes me belong
Attaching me to the rest of the world
This storm we all share
As opposed to my private storm
The storm of my fathers snare

hiding in the dark
a retreat to solitude
the trees hold my hand

“thus, art is subjective, as human beings
are not inherently objective creatures…”

the instructor says, and I nod,
drawing a caricature of her
in my notebook alongside
scribbles about the Willow Tea Room
and twentieth century Scottish architecture.

I pull the eraser out
of my mechanical pencil,
roll it between my fingertips,
feel the rubber heat up.
It is active, warm, useful—
everything that I am currently not.
I want to rub it on my skin,
obliterate myself from the day.

Instead, I erase the crude drawing,
replace it with notes on Neuschwanstein castle
and daydream of throwing myself from a turret.

Your sweet magnolia scent
mingles with the heat of my skin,
crushed petals clinging to wet hands.

“Let go. Let go,” I repeat,
a single iris flooded with tears,
memories trapped between pursed lips.

Stretched out on Georgia sands
where clay meets saltwater,
I finally whisper your name.

what my mind approaches
what I tilt my head to
and my hands reach for—

all the beautiful things
preserved in their truth

spring in the flower,
the fall of the leaf,
the rays of summer
and white canvas winter

precious things I pause to notice

PorcelainTears [Anna-Maria]
November 14, 2020

everything sets at the window

like; drips of moon ink,
the lingered scent of a summer's day

the pleasure of a romantic moment
our smiles, wet with rain
the song of— time in the bottle

PorcelainTears [Anna-Maria]
November 12, 2020

The scrimshaw of the air, the long whales-tooth of sunlight
Etched with seafarer’s care and his great wantonness for the sea,
A kiss as light as the bottlenose dolphin cresting from the water,
Then night undressed and falling down like sliding beads of watery stars
From the wet coriaceous porpoise skin and a tail of silver fire.