~Prelude, Scarred Story~








She didn’t notice

didn’t look through the window pane

to see the approaching storm

Didn’t catch the scent in the air

warning her of danger approaching

so busy with life she was

Until it was almost too late

It was the whistling wind

like a hurting animal or distant lover

a persistent sound carried from

there to here

When she finally lifted her eyes

saw the swirling mass

precious minutes were lost

She remembered her husband

the baby, her grandmother, the cat

not all could be saved

the tornado had now moved from

there to here

(Below, previously posted)


The overripe pears lay untouched

sprawled across the white tablecloth

on the red oak kitchen table

A pitcher of cream, a bowl

an antique silver spoon are

on the linoleum counter waiting

for a chance to be helpful

which will never come

The deserted farmhouse is wary

worn wooden flooring speaks

of a rushed departure

bags dragged, many pairs of feet

rushing out the front door

Each imprint in the dust

tells a silenced story ~

each pear and its

pungent fragrence ~

the spoiled and clotted cream ~

are mysterious scars left behind

of unknown fear, tragedy or circumstance

left for me to fill in the frame and image

of what took place months and months ago




About the Author ()

I am very passionate, sometimes too impulsive, a lover of life and all that it has to offer.

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