Winter’s Melody 

Shifting of branches
Crack of her limbs
A melody of tinkling,
The cause for my grin.
Ice sliding downward
Upon a water bed,
And these sounds,
Caused by the wind.
A reason for pause
A merge of solitude,
I wonder what if
or possibly, what then.
Turning to ask,
A fog of memories,
Finding you further away
And our story, at its end.

Honesty

Rarely do I rebolg and never have I reblogged my own words, but today as I reflect on what is asked of me in this new life of mine, I saw this again. It made me shudder in disbelief and nod sadly. Why, after three years am I still struggling to believe trust exists. Today, I open my heart to the act of trusting. Maybe someone out there will, too. The post is a bit of a rambling, but that conversation I wrote down there is the presence of love and trust, as I live and breathe.

Oldest Daughter & Red Headed Sister

I’m currently writing through some dark spots in my book, which means a lot of self-reflection pokes at my attention. I am broken, even with my deep faith, and after all these years. Thank you for sitting through a lot of darkness lately, and a bit more to come. I hope you’ll be there when this moment passes on.

So, while seeking deep inside myself, this conversation came to me. My Angel’s conversation with God as it arrived on paper yesterday. I have come to realize that I feel love, but I don’t trust love.

I am a child who grew up too soon due to divorce. I love my parents deeply. I have forgiven them quite easily and years ago. As an adult, I see how hard it is to always make the best decisions. No one is capable of that kind of perfection. Not me. Not my parents. They did…

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A Life Obtainable 

A window into ever after,
Witnessing from afar, a life
Where forests grow,
Oceans lap endlessly
And desires are still
Encouraged, sought after
And dreamed.
A place where faith,
Comes first, as our
Initial breath, while
prairie grass bows
Towards wind, steadfast.
Homes are full of heat,
Not just from bread baking,
But from love honest
and complete. Endless
Work, and time to pause
Deemed important,
Yet over time, has been lost.

Stoic Protector

Do you know the owl,
The one who sits now
Upon the middle limb,
The patchwork branch,
Of a once thriving essence?
Her skin is exposed,
Bare, light timber
Amongst veined,
Even freckled patches of,
Black and grey bark.
Owl remains perched,
Guarding at the helm,
As the brightest star sets
Behind thinning stock, and
What is now his tree,
Whether he chooses to
Believe it or not.
She’s the aftermath of
Witnessed abuse,
Pain felt,
And reoccurring sadness
As others depart.
He’s her stoic protector
And shall not fade
With the evening sun.