Molt

In spring you shed

mad winter growth;

wonder plumage

enviable by any bird.

Rite of passage

ushers in your time

of seasonal regeneration,

hints of immortality.

Dust hangs in the air.

Mound of shavings on the floor.

A glance in the mirror leaves

you barely recognizable.

You emerge shorn,

pale and summer-ready,

protected by nothing but expectancy
and your skin.

tk/June 2015

Elegant read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Throwback Thursday, then and now...

Way back to the pixie cut bangs and sundress. My mother kept my hair cut very short. It was stylish then, I suppose, but I dearly craved a pony tail. So much, I clipped a sock on the back of my head, just to see what it felt like when I skipped around. Maybe that's why I enjoy doing stuff with my hair now. Chopsticks. Clips. Pencils. I still skip, when no one's watching.

thunder in my hair

A thrill of thunder in my hair:

Though blackening clouds be plain,

Still I am stung and startled

By the first drop of the rain:

Romance and pride and passion pass

And these are what remain.

― G.K. Chesterton (and me)

rain today at Willow Manor