I beg to differ,
eggshell and off-white are not
the same as white,
and vanilla is no more yellow
than aubergine is purple,
or turquoise is just blue….
And I’d sincerely appreciate it
if one didn’t roll their eyes
at the sighs escaping me
upon ridiculous remarks like
‘looks all the same to me’….
If, during Stone Age,
we had picked holly berries
instead of red currant
with an offhand
‘looks all the same to me’,
humankind would be extinct….
Your mood is dark today,
mirroring the gloomy November sky.
Brooding has furrowed your brow,
your angry grumbling
conjures up storm clouds.
A true descendant of Thor,
thunder echoes in your voice
and lightning flashes in your eyes.
Dark energy crackles in the air,
surrounding you like a dreadful shield.
I take a deep breath and brace myself.
Warded by a four-leaf clover
and armed with a cup of tea
I enter the cave
heading for the eye of the storm.
I watch as you carefully pick up
the fragile ladybug
that got caught in the curtain.
I can’t help but stare at your hands,
those hands that had me
right from the start
and I am captivated by
their gentle movement.
We count the black spots
smiling,
there are eight,
our lucky number.
I watch your fingers
as they delicately
follow the outlines
of the tiny wing covers,
and I shiver
when I recall those fingers
composing their song
on my skin.
© november child
I am not her
so let me not walk
in the shadows of your past,
do not force me to enter
the labyrinth of wrong turns
make me not feed
off an empty plate,
do not let me starve from
your fear of getting close
let me not hear
the whispers of bygone days,
do not chain me
to the post of revived clashes
make me not dig
in the ruins of the departed,
do not force me to brush off
the dusty bones of past deceit
make me not part of
what you left behind,
do not crucify me on
the cross of your flashbacks
count not my mistakes
on old balance sheets,
free me from
lapsed mindsets and regrets
bring only yourself
when you come to me,
bless my innocence
by remembering
I am not her
I need you to show me,
show me the little boy
trapped inside the man.
Show me the spring
he got his first dog,
the wildness when they played.
Show me the summer
he learned to swim,
the sting of chlorine in his eyes.
Show me the autumn
he first rode his bike,
the wind tugging his hair.
Show me the winter
he built his first snowman,
the cold hands and running nose.
Show me his giggles,
his wishes and wonders,
scraped knees and angry tears.
Show me the boy you were
before the world told you
how to be a man.
in response to: Photo Fiction #52
november child 