The secret of sunshine is that it brings shadows
the I-can’t-see-as I drive under the bridge shadows,
the ones with depth
and usually corners to get stuck in.
The cat thought I had learned to purr,
camping out in my lap,
until you came home.
Shh, there are things of which we don’t speak,
there are words we do not use,
let us live a life of selected memory
where we exchange the shadows for the warm glow of a fire.
If you can sustain the story,
the one you tell in your mind
let leak onto paper
they will have their own lives
but hidden in small details
you place the truth
and those who have been there will know.
Note: I used to call these poetry, but now looking at them they are more like fragments of what I see in life. Not enough to warrant paragraphs, and a little more lyrical. Yet they aren’t poetry in form or intent. If my life was painted on glass and it shattered each of these would be a piece you picked up, that’s all.