She looked at the tiny droplets of water clinging to the window,
Breathed in the subtle change of air.
The sun was sliding, ever so slowly,
The gentle pause to the end of the day.
poetry
Are we so different?
Are we so different?
Does the river not cry as it stumbles and falls?
Is the flesh of rock not the same as mine only hardened by age?
Do your tears not join others and flow to the sea?
Your breathe, nourishment for another soul?
Your sweat damp like earth after rain?
Are we so different?
After all?
The Backbones
‘She’s got quite a spine,’ slammed the undisclosed door.
‘It’s solid, for sure,’ spoke the board of the floor.
‘Yes, the bones are evident,’ revealed the light from the street.
‘I can’t see a thing!’ shouted the shadow of feet.
Metamorphosis
It was an illusion
Nothing was left behind but the past
In fact she needed nothing more to step into the future
Except the belief that there was one.
Climate Changed her.
Sweet Surrender
The world held her well
Each hard-boned twig that pressed into her flesh
Reminded her that strength and fragility
Exist in the same moment
The Ruin
We crumble and fall
At every moment
And that is the beauty of change
Between
Holding
Being held
Between two worlds we are
The sky in your eyes
The river in mine
We are held
Together
Yet apart
Elemental
I am a wild creature, she breathed through every pore. Do you know how to fly, Inquired the endless sky? Of course I do, she replied, not making a move. Then where are your wings, demanded the coarse wood beneath her arse. I don’t need them today, was all that she said. So you’re stuck, laughed the branches prodding her gently. The wind was listless. No rain tried to fall. But the shadows had an interesting perspective. They took the form of whatever they lay on and when the sun turned, left no trace at all.
Missing
Sometimes I just miss people. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their heart beat. I want to look into their souls. Share stories. Linger in all the delicious ways. This isn’t lust. There are many ways to be in the world. Lust has its place. But the kind of desire I speak of is a love so deep that it may only last a second yet find perfection. The willingness to be absolutely present. This is not a contradiction. The longing is a sweetness, something that poetry holds hands with and prose takes a long walk through aimless streets.
Dreaming
She sat by the river,
Dreaming.
Singing to water birds,
And frogs in the slime.
Distant places alive in her mind.
It’s not so hard, called the grasses wild,
You’re rooted to earth,
This isn’t your fault.
It’s a breathing, crumbling, uplifting result.
Her thoughts began shifting,
She rustled her leaves.
Wind carried her desires,
And soon there was peace.
The elements colluded,
Earth, water, air and fire.
She picked up her roots,
And flew to the sky.
Jeni McMillan 