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The Winter Preacher
It’s a Saturday morning Streetlights still aglow In the dead of winter I feel the wind blow I debate driving to Chesapeake For another race I love to compete I step back inside and lace my shoes Tell Billy, “Come on,” I watch the sleepy Golden move We venture out into the bitter air It’s
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Planes
There are streaks in the sky White trails following white tails Silver stars scattered across a light pink backdrop So alluring I stop My dog does as well Those massive marvels cast their spell Sometimes we sit on the hill and watch them take off and land Carrying all those people with all their plans
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The Peak of Chesapeake
“Take your mace,” my husband told me We kissed then I went out the door, happily The race was on a Saturday morning So many familiar faces Ones I’d seen almost every week A few new ones This time, hitting the trails in Chesapeake A lot of cars in the parking lot The placard in
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Big Dog, Little Dog
Dogs are my favorite creatures. It’s just me and two pups this weekend, as my husband and a group of friends are away in D.C. That’s one of the reasons I love dogs: They provide a great excuse as to why you can’t go on a trip you don’t want to go on. “I have
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Clearance
I walked into the department store after work today A week after Christmas I can’t stay away The red sign in the window caught my eye Clearance, it read, So I figured there were some things I could buy The place was pretty bare Compared to two weeks ago No Christmas wrap and no miscellaneous
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Melody of the New Year
It’s one-one-two-three January 1st, twenty twenty three A foggy start here on the East Coast My husband and I piled in My brother too He wanted to meet people and get in better shape So we brought him with us to the cape We’d talked him into his first race We all drove to the
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The Deceased
It’s funny how death has a way A way of bringing the scattered together A way of making us think about living So on a pretty day in December we gather Three hundred or so but a core group We each have a story We all enter the doors The deceased’s pictures hangs on the
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Hummingbird
What do You say about my heart That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Not my boss or peers, the internet Not where I live, what I wear, what I do, or where I sit What’s behind all of it? You watch it flutter You hear me sputter Like a hummingbird Worrying, rushing At the forefront
writings on life
gremlin fodder 