I saw this beauteous hour
when the sun burst through with wild abandon
merciful and golden
on a day when anything seemed possible
after the torturous night
belching wind gales,
a night so dark, even the swallows refused to fly
we came hither from the madness
after night took a scalpel to the sky
and the fear that shattered us drove us
halfway between a plea and a prayer
the history of it all
traced in words of indigo and sorrow
Now, this
the sun at last
great, glimmering star
glowing through the first buds
of an old, hickory tree
who had long thought
its best days were behind
But this,
as it is now
emerging from
the wind-moaned sadness of it all
a promise unfurled in green leaves and twigs
in the shallow beating rhythm of dove wings
spring comes again
even with its beauty
even with its pain
it comes and says to us
as our ears tune to heed
the amazing wildness
it says
it is okay now
trust still for a while
open your bitter heart
forgive the sentence of the Ages
About the Creator
Lana Broussard
Lana Broussard writes primarily under the pen name, L.T. Garvin. She writes fiction, poetry, essays, and humor. She is the author of Confessions of a 4th Grade Athlete, Animals Galore, The Snjords, and Dancing with the Sandman.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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