Winter Fire

.

I am the water

you draw from your well –

steep me

into your tea.

.

I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate –

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

.

I am the evergreen

on your morning walk –

breathe me

into your shadow.

.

I am the eyes

meeting yours in the marketplace –

see the pangs

of my hunger.

.

I am the line

down the middle of your road –

follow me

through the desert.

.

I am the match

that lights your winter fire –

catch my sparks

in a jar.

.

I am the shooting star

in your fevered night –

wish for me

one more time.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post, revised….)

 

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Layers

.

She keeps it in a wooden box

between soft layers of cotton —

the arrowhead

he found in the desert.

It still bears his fingerprints —

invisible, like the many poems

she composes in her head

but never writes,

.

poems she sends

across the valley

hoping they’ll lodge

in his dreams

some heavy night.

.

She imagines them

circling his body

like halos of concentric light,

or perhaps brushing his face

with kisses

silky as a feather.

.

But then, like the arrowhead

she draws them home again

tucking them safely away —

sonnets nestled in her soul

between reluctant layers

of silence.

.

.

© 2014, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(A re-post from 2014)

.

I hope everyone is staying well out there. Will try to catch up with you all soon. ❤

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Wist

.

It doesn’t seem

that long ago

you came

but could not stay.

.

Our paths were crossed

and time got lost –

seems only yesterday, and yet

.

the moon still beams

and waxes full

above the sea

beyond the knoll

.

where we grew young

so long ago

when Eros came to play.

.

.

© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Just another entropic scribble.  🙂  )

.

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Signals

.

Beating of deep drums,

puff of smoke on horizon

and then you were gone.

.

More is said in love’s silence

than we can e’er say out loud.

.

.

©  2012, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Reposted from 2012, revised.)

.

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Grace

.

She dammed her feelings

for him

with a bone cork

and Earth became

a rocking jug

with aching sides

and tears

that leaked through cracks

.

and there was naught

but a dry, brown light

across the sky.

.

And when the gods looked down

they cursed the plug

and ground it to dust

with their fists.

.

Earth shuddered

and roared

in a great awakening

of heat and light

.

until at last

there rose

in her breast

the endless rainbow fount

of love undamned.

.

(c)  1995, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Revision of an oldie, first posted in 2011.)

.

 

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Steam

.

We fan the embers

turning to flamingo flames

parsing the silence

.

like a blue-white star –

fire so hot there is no smoke,

just the melt of time.

.

Vermilion night,

soft sizzle of sparks afire –

it begins to rain.

.

.

©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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It Won’t be Long

.

Many years ago

and still

you’re with me

in the silent deep

.

where time spins faster

before our eyes –

.

it won’t be long

until that blur

is just a knowing smile.

.

.

©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

.

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Offering

.

She still remembers

his deep embrace    

in the open entryway

.

and the salty taste of urgency

on the tongue

of an April day

.

and their offering

to the gods

as it hung in the sun to dry

.

to fluff and fold,

but tenderly —

in the wrinkles of goodbye.    

.

.

(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Yarn

.

Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another whirl,

.

pray I do not drop a stitch,

just let me add another inch,

.

never mind – make it two

and soon I’ll have a wrap for you,

.

any shape, any size

in Dutch blue just like your eyes.

.

Put it on o’er your head

or wear it as a shawl instead,

.

hold it tightly like a hug

or roll it out like a rug,

.

spread it on your bed at night

or in the closet out of sight.

.

He loves me, he loves me not,

doesn’t matter, I’m still caught

.

stuck inside a ball of yarn,

unravel me between your arms,

.

then hold me to your face – pretend

that I can kiss your face again.

.

Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another twirl

.

and when at last we’re all unwound

I will put my needles down.

.

.

© 2013, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-posted from 2013)

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When Shamans Move

.

The day comes

when his totem

tumbles to the ground

and he commands silence.

.

He empties his pouch

of tooth and claw,

spreads his eagle wings

and flies to the top

of the mountain,

.

and with one last glance

at the ashes

and the shattering,

he sighs, and

disappears

into his own truth.

.

.

(c)  1996, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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