Many Years Later...
The Misty Mountains

"Daddy! Daddy!" I call, running down the hallway to the room at the back of the house where my father Cennanon sits behind his potter's wheel, shaping a clay vase.
He looks up and smiles at me. "What is it, Indiel?"
I twirl around, spreading my arms wide. "Spring!" I sing out happily.
"Come, my little one. We will go see spring together," he laughs, standing and washing the clay off of his hands. He takes my small hand in his own large one, and we walk outside together.

It’s that time of year again – the Holiday is upon us. The one with sentiment and disgusting feelings. You know what I’m talking about.

Wait, no; not that one. Have you been living under a rock since New Years? It’s the horrifying one. It’s the one rampant with commercialism, and attempts to purchase affection. The one with desperation lurking on the edges of every smile while fisticuffs take place in the local Aldi’s over the last remaining overpriced and sweetened box of chocolates.

you are the bird in my hand
our friendship is living and fragile
I can feel its heart beat fast on the vein in my palm

you are worth two in the bush
we are not entwined like undergrowth
two is the number of unattainable birds and lovers

nothing makes a bird sing like flying
nothing makes me write like falling in love

flaws for me, flaws for you
a bird in the hand cannot fly
you do not even like poetry

onions
come gift-wrapped in gossamer gauze
and split into spirals of pearl

you
wear a raven rag worn to feather-down
and bury unplumbed depths of body beneath

love
is shaped of (one) the yearning for you
and (two) the ambition to act well by you

one
I will rather hold soft than shiny
I will rather taste sweet than sour

two
you grow deeper than any root
and I, a storyteller, garden souls

I
(three) still fear to rip apart never grasping
what first desires or second requires

brown-eyed boy met four-eyed girl
six years ago now? almost seven
so when the ones syrup deep shot through with glass grass green
meet mirror reflecting window strong in numbers
lip corners turn skyward without knowing why
she returns from hot sun country lovely shulammite dark
she has not set free one or two “dear my friend” letters but
always writing multitasking while they catch up she scribbles
he thinks this message is mine and so it is
but little does she know he can read upside down

10/4/08 version

There is a chill
In the air
Tonight
Oh so soft and subtle
But oh so
Cold

It creeps
Up your sleeves
Winds around your chest
And numbs your heart.
It freezes the sky,
Frosts
The already-chilly stars,
And blows your hair
Gently
Around your almost-frozen face.

“What’s your girl like, then?”
“Eh? Wot?”
“That letter you’re writin’. Go on, tell us what she’s like.”
“Aw, my lady, she’s smashin’. Mad, too.”
“Mad? How mad? Does she throw pans and ‘oller?”
“Nah, mad about flowers. An’ clothes. An’ flowers on clothes. She paints roses on ‘er stockin’s and ties wreaths in her cloudy red ‘air…”
“An’ by cloudy, you mean…”
“Sticks out in waves every which way. Ain’t ever lied flat, s’far’s I can remember. Gives kisses of its own, it does.”
“Sounds… strikin’.”

Here's another of those weekly contests I've doing: I'll share the prompt and the story! 

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Guess what! You get to do a story based off of a painting… and here it is!

http://www.erasofelegance.com/arts/gallery/eleighton/eleighton5.jpg