#carelinewrite

[carelinewrite]

[carelinewrite]

Late bloomer

Certain petals burst in August,

when others’ leaves are well and green,

while trees begin to pop in color -

end of summer begs to be seen.

- Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

Forming Rivers

How it must have felt for earth to pry open jaws

of its crust, making way for spiraling waterways

as though they had been there since the beginning,

like a mother makes room for a child

with flowing tears, attempts to soothe

any and all wrongs despite knowing there is

much she can’t fully know downstream.

April 15

- Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

What is love?

Is it a warm kiss on a cold night?

Flowers for every occasion?

Star-crossed fate shimmering in the moonlight?

Friendship standing the test of time?

A helping hand, holding hands, attributes that go hand in hand?

An answer to a burning question, perhaps.

Maybe it’s not leaving someone alone when they’re not all right.

Or, leaving them when they need space and you being all right with that.

Imagine it lives in a laugh or a tear, silence when you’re unsure what to say.

Maybe it’s prepping a remedy when someone’s in pain.

Placing a phone call, responding to a text.

Watching a sunrise.

Applying sunscreen.

Opening a sunroof.

Catching a sunset.

Saying,

“I do.”

Then,

asking,

“Do you?”

May 21

- Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

The wind is beautiful if you watch

lovely, if you listen.

Flags of many colors crinkle and wave

as neighborhood chimes sound their individual melodies.

Wind turbines spin, spin -

around and around.

Mesmerizing,

if you stop to think of it.

March 12

-Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

For every poem written

There is one stashed away, folded in the night. Another, with a coffee stain, awaits its last line. For every poem, there is one saved for publication– the minute one poem is in the public eye, it is rendered useless for another. 

For each poem written, there’s one in the clouds, one hidden behind untold stories of people we walk past every day. At least one poem is forgotten as a squirrel’s nut trove– there and gone at the same time, also like some fond memories.

One poem can be too tragic to put to words, so it sits idly in someone’s attic, eager for a ghost to clear its cobwebs with a stiff tissue and a ballpoint pen. For every poem written, there is one that goes unread, one gifted, another held tight.

Every day, a poem is carried out to compost along with cracked eggshells and paper cups. March 22 - Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

Grace is a bird who flies symmetrically with its flock, also soars beautifully on its own - in search of Father Wind.

May 27 - Caroline Wright

[carelinewrite]

Little Free Library

Each time I passed, I looked

in your nook for a book

of verse. And today,

you delivered.

May 11

- Caroline Wright