Fortuitous

A late summer night, humid, sleep

not coming, the minutes hastening

into the early morning hours;

 

an owl calls out, and the loon,

and the sun’s dawning

is a faint glow against a dark sky.

Touch (5 Haiku)

That first touch, fingers

trace a soft face, newly born,

and now, wholly yours;

 

and a head cradled,

whisps of down, senses tickled,

light, fresh, a life held;

 

the soft kiss of lips

pressed to tiny fingers’ tips

reaching out for touch;

 

The grasp, then, of fingers

clutching yours, a brief touch gone

in letting go, time, too;

 

and the rivulet

of tears, wet and warm, streaming,

time’s touch remem’bring.

The Glen

A good story is a lantern, a fire in the dark, a whisper of home when home is far away. Hold it close, and it will light your way.

 

Victoria Beata, Tales of the Glen

Oh, to live now in the Glen,

where the neighbors are Mouse

and Cat and Owl and Rabbit, busy

with their books and baking and gardens,

new beginnings, to share their scones

and tea and biscuits, and mine with them,

as we do in the Glen that always was, always is,

sharing, too, our tales and stories and our lives,

together, Best Beloved, as it should be,

in the company of all things good and quiet.

 

The Glen will be waiting for you, you know. … It always is. And so am I.

Mouse, Goodnight, Tales from the Glen

 

78 / 10

 

https://www.victoriabeata.com/

Fireflies

Fireflies can’t be silenced,

announcing themselves,

signaling, those tiny lights

blinking on, blinking off, blinking

outside my window, gazing out

and trying to sleep,

trying to forget:

I am reminded, again,

that light cannot be silenced.