Culture of Me/3

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Eggshells pile
in a bowl on a counter
next to a tin.
The day broke open.
Sun wrinkles through the cracks,
glows like yolks
no longer in residence.
Just a reminder –
we have more
to do,
always.

Crows complain
like an old married couple,
or
do they warn us on
yesterday’s storm washing
away
that which is no longer
needed.
Just a brief –
a constant one,
we are not
in control.

James Taylor aches in
the background, a
harmonica in harmony
with him of days past.
Remember –
the wheel turns and
returns,
and once again
we recycle and protest
and call to action.

Wind skims down the slanted roof
whirring through long chime pipes,
carrying with it
leaf bits
beaten off tree limbs in
last night’s hail.
They flutter, scatter in cadence.
This, too –
squall brings change,
transformation into something
new.

Who said faeries and elves don’t exist?
I wonder –
on my moss rock,
mushrooms abloom in leaf mold,
and fiddleheads tickling
my toes.

 

 

Author’s Note:

About once a month our writing group converges. We eat and laugh. We catch up. And then we write. Today, we were at Niki’s house. There were treasures to be found by my iPhone camera. Thank you, Niki, for leaving the eggshells.

As tradition demands, there are prompts to be pulled from an envelope. We can ignore it if we choose. Or choose another one. We’re loose like that. And we each throw in a word to be included. Which can be. Or not. We write for a little over a half an hour. When the bell rings, we leave some time to “finish up.”

We’ve been at it for over seven years now. And today we were seven ranging from nineteen to sixty-three. Grandmother, dancer, Naval Reserve, ELA teacher, retired and soon-to-be, and black belt. Among some of these things that we are, we revel in one another as writers and women of the world.

This is our culture.

 

 

My prompt:
Who said faeries and elves don’t exist?

Our words:
ordinary, magnanimous, teenager, mushroom, doubt, candid, slime

Leaving Treasure

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I seat an egg cockleshell
miles from it’s home,
where waves of grass abound
instead of water.

I deposit it lightly
where branch once protracted
from trunk rooted deeply underground.

“It’s a treasure,”
I whisper to my darling sister tree.
“Hold it safe for seeker to find.”

And I’ll return someday,
in hope to behold idle womb
as I confer a new wonder to tarry.