whisper soft again, friend
describe cold smoke, warm mother
blue-glazed bowl of soup
another cat in the window
dusty fan-blown strands
ten whole days widen slits
where tiny words swallowed
or tap danced
or overly devoured
around wispy sunlight fingers
peeled painted eyelids open
spiraled dragon breath
rocks stacked with books
green moss lingered
two arms flung upward
toward you
10/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
Bridgette Tales 
Hmmm?
ten whole days widen slits
where tiny words swallowed
Whatever could she mean?
This is a very nice, pleasant poem, Ms B. Thanks.
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Thanks, I’m thinking a lot about Neil and what kind of words he’d bring forward. 100 days is feeling a lot at the moment.
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Yeah. That. Honestly, during this trying-to-catch-up-to-Bridgette phase, I’ve looked a couple times at the poem drafts I’ve stashed and never published. In fact, getting ready to do that now. Gotta do two-a-day here and there….
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The poem contains a lot of personal imagery. The end offers a clue to the painful absence.
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