GwainGwain tiptoed out of the house into the gray-pink of early dawn, clutching the small, sharp mother-of-pearl handled knife she had purchased the night before.
A pleasant tight feeling of nervous anticipation filled her body as she set out at the slow trot she could keep up for miles, her long braid smacking against her tan back.
She hadn't gone looking for a job, not really.
She, like many other poor kids, had discovered that people threw coins into the ocean by the dock for children to dive and retrieve.
It wasn't her fault if she was really good at it.
There were few afternoons she couldn't be found wearing nothing but an old faded pair of shorts sitting on the dock waiting for someone to toss a coin. She knew that if her mother found out she would be in big trouble, but the docks were a long ways away from her mother's house, and she wouldn't have any spending money at all if she didn't dive.
And besides, begging was better than stealing.
It had been an afternoon like any other, she
To Anyone ListeningI'll be the thunderstorm in your night sky
If you'll just be the moon
Churning my ocean tides
Or I'll be the moon
If you'll be the solid earth
I can orbit around
I'll be a jasmine flower
And scent the night with love for you
If you'll be the rain
To keep me alive
I'll be a seedling
And grow in your love
If you'll be my sun
And warm the soil for me
I'll be yours
If you'll be mine
And love me
I'll love you forever and after
If you'll just be here
When I'm so lonely
And I'll be the thunderstorm in your night sky
If you'll come
And be with me
Hard or soft,
Or in between
I come in many guises
Basically the same
Despite all my disguises.
Or subtle and mild
Or very very bland.
Just milk made thick
By whey removed
And cultures added in.
You may eat me on bread
You may eat me with fruit
I may be sprinkled on your soup
But please pause
And appreciate me
And all the things I do.
I'm busy, it's true
But when I've a minute to think, I think of you.
My sigh when I finally go to bed
The first half, true is tired,
But the second half is lonely for you.
I remember what you say about clouds,
But to me they never look painted
When I look at them
For a minute
Before getting back to work.
I feel the touch of the wind and sun,
And it's nice,
But I want your touch.
My fork traces your name on my plate
I shiver into my chilly bed,
and wish you could help keep it warm.
My muscles ache,
but my heart aches more.
It misses you,
And the muscles just have an unoxidized buildup of acid.
In a room of people talking,
I sit and listen,
And write a poem for you.
I'm worried about managing everything,
I'm worried about fitting in,
I'm worried about making my boss like me,
I'm trying to get enough rest at night
I'm busy and learning and working and tired out...
But there is space in my life for you.
A hole in my life waiting for you.
To stop, and be cradled in the arms of the trees. Lean against one and feel her support.
They claw at life, desperate to live, to survive one more year, one more day. Lean against one, and feel your energy begin to drain away, sucked up by the tree's enourmous need, it's desperation.
The sensual, full-bodied celebration of season's end. A fiercely friendly competition of hue and vibrancy. Flamboyant laughter and color in a drunken dance across the sky before winter's sleep.
Defeat. The frost has won and stolen the summer away.
Sleeping – waiting.
...we will all die... we will all die.
We awake! Leaping into the cycle, we explode in leaves and flowers, a quiet hum of abundant life shivers through us.
With a sigh, we begin again.