I notice when she wakes in the dim light of the morning.
I see her light is brighter like the smile in your eyes.
I feel her breeze rise like a great breath; a sigh offering a gesture of relief, followed by “gesundheit” and with a shy apology it moves over the landscape touching every stock and branch and lifting the palms in rustling applause.
I know this day is special, the colors give her away. The great Palo Verde wears a yellow kirtle as though the sun had spilled its ray-drops like wax upon her branches. Her petals ascend upon the wind in dance and song and then…
I remember that it is Spring
A Last Ride
The son thought of his father and
the last venture to be together.
To visit familiar sights would seem
a salve to such a brief illness.
That day where red lights were not an inconvenience
and the radio turned off never sounded better
the thick silence would serve to be a
warm pause within the stillness.
The son brought the truck to a gentle stop,
at a familiar spot that once had been life’s porch
where make-believe in growing up was
practiced into character.
That day, both men gathered a rush of memory
but from different ends of the same place
to fill up their purpose so not
to be forgotten.
And so, that moment was to be
the son’s most lucid knowing
that bliss arrives like misty rain and
remains as hemlock in winter.
Tom Boyle spent a career crafting business communications to help raise funds in the not-for profit sector. He still enjoys searching for the ideal turn of phrase that will illustrate a compelling idea. From the glitter and grunge of Las Vegas to the mountain west’s striking natural settings, Boyle’s writing weaves these locales of home into his existential musings. He writes poetry and is a student at the Writers Studio, Tucson Arizona campus.
Featured image is the author’s own, used with permission.
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