Relatable

Have you ever seen a gray moon?

Not just the color,

Sort of overcast, hanging sadly in the shadows of the night,

It illuminates nothing, and yet it still gives off a pitiful puff of light

Like the end of the last drag of a wilting cigarette.

Lifeless, dull, dreary, weathered

Smudged glass reflecting fingerprints

Yellowing newspapers crinkled in a scrapbook

Quietly standing by, observing the night

From the corner of a barren room,

Perhaps a musty-scented basement?

Perspective can change its appearance and

The moon can illuminate -White! Harvest! Yellow! Shining!

But not tonight

Not here

Not in this season

It is just gray.

I can relate.

Mom’s Door

A door, kissed long and hard by the sun,

Splintered wood, peeling red paint,

Brass knob, hot fingerprints, weeded cement bellowing out below.

Pounded by storms and slammed by ghosts,

A lifetime of entrances, exits, and foot steps,

Oblivious to the world changing constantly just beyond its horizon.

This is still my home, my messy soul.

Chances are you will never meet,

The dusty crevices housing a million memories,

Lucky to stand for so long, sturdy and sure.

Bold speck of reassurance,

Splatter of color in a grey world,

Rooted deep, part of one girl’s beginning.

Replaced today with chalky beige; the new owners favor boredom?

A photograph, to remind of a gloriously palpable youth,

Not quite the same, but she will do well in her new glass case.

Hanging above me to whisper,

You are always with me, and I am with you, kid.

Bittersweet comfort. I go on, as she would insist.

Beautiful.

Yet,

Forever grief.