Backs to the ground, swaying.
Crimson and canary-striped
hammock, cradling us three.
Lilac’s ambrosial perfume
fills the warm night.
I am afraid to blink, waiting
for a sole star to divide the sky.
Why does the moon rest just above
the roof tonight, but not tomorrow?
The moon has its own routine.
It, like me, has places to be.
Dad tells us tales of his time in London.
One scene plays in my head like an echo
as if the memory were my own, or real.
My visits are infrequent and long.
And cut short every time.
An ethereal glade, my father and his friends
running from the ecotone through the rain to a bar,
the sound of folk songs like mist in the air,
asking for chips, and getting fries.
A trivial locale in London,
that may only exist in my mind.
But it’s London to me.
And now the celestial night
holds in its merciful grasp–
and rain, and the hammock.
It holds the lilac bush past its uprooting.
It holds the waxing crescent moon
lingering forever above the church roof.
It holds the anticipation
of a wish and the warmth of summer.
It holds loneliness and the reminder
of how much we must mean
to be this small and to still be loved.
It holds the secrets of life and death,
and the story of time. And I get to see it
for a fraction of its existence,
for the entirety of mine.
I am currently 19 years old and have spent most of my life in western Colorado. Besides my time in Oregon the past year and a half (for which I am so grateful), I consider myself a Coloradan at heart and felt called to move back to the colorful, sunny state. Most of my inspiration for my work is derived from nature, my faith, and the human experience. I enjoy sunrise runs, cat snuggles, writing (and re-writing) late at night, and listening to audiobooks and music. I hope to become a published fiction author in the future and am taking my goal one day, and one word, at a time.