A Fire in July

Who would be so foolish, to light
a fire in July
To lay limb upon limb until
the flames stand ten feet high

Who would be so foolish, to let
a fire land such blows
To burn so hot its flames lick
the dirt around one’s soul

Who would be so foolish?
Only those who hate the cold

 


© 2017-2019 The Hidden Press. All Rights Reserved.

A Day

A Day’s Eye, plucked

and placed behind an ear

-sun yellow and snow white on soft brown-

surpasses sham bouquets

and bloodless clichés

 

A Day’s Bread, blessed

by familiar hands and

made for breaking together-

Not stocked or boxed

or ready-to-go from lit windows

 

A Day’s Trouble, told

not for fixing but feeling

Forget five-step solutions

and listen to the words break

with each intake of breath-

Lean in close

 

A Day’s Joy, sung

and danced and stamped

above an eyebrow with invisible ink-

Permanent.

Careless of photos, new posts, and groupthink

 

A Day’s End, eclipsed

by distraction and sapped

of its painted appeal

needs sleepy secret watches

together watching

all the bodies gleam

 

A Day’s Love,

A Day’s Love made a Life’s Labor.

An irresistible enclosing

An inexorable exposure

The cost of knowing and being known.

 


© 2017-2019 The Hidden Press. All Rights Reserved.