By Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The Hum of Silence

In the sweet idleness of my
home, the hum of silence all
around me, a pale scent of 
wood smoke is in the breeze
outside my half open window
while I sit by the hearth,
awaiting my breakfast being
cooked over the fire when
the silence was broken by
a squirrel chattering noisily
down the bare limb of a birch
tree. I thought of the rascal
and the morning walk I always
took, gathering rose hips
plumping on a bush beside
the trail, the thin cloud cover
of the sky above me. When
it begins to snow I write
letters to my best friend  in
the glow of my lamp's candle
flame with the only piece of
jewelry I ever owned, an opal
I wore on a choker round
my neck handed down by my
father, and it always reminded
me of him. In my dreams
when night cloaked me in
I'd see a snowy owl in the early
blue starlit heavens.

Stitching Our Memories Together

They lived behind us on the other
side of the creek, separated from
us by a tall mesh wire fence, their
mobile home the same size as ours,
two women living together, best
friends; one with androgynous
features, the other more feminine
and a bit plump. The one with
the tough stick figure loved to speak,
her voice a loud one that could travel
for miles, and me and my husband
would talk to them from our backyard
patio. Susan, a former police officer
with smoker's breath, and Jill, a woman
with pretty morning hair. Once in awhile
I'd hear them bicker sweetly, and on
cloudless days they'd let Susan's tiny
dog Dolly roam. Today everything stood
still as a summer afternoon and all felt
slow as a lullaby; they were outside
clustered in the inkwell of shade made
by a beach umbrella and Susan was
into her pastime of making drawings
of animals like Dolly, gander, and
herons in flight, purring a song while
she let her muse flow. Their backyard
scented by star jasmine, I could imagine
being close friends with them, stitching
our memories together.

Azalea View

Today I swap my backpack
for a bicycle, hit the sidewalks,
dirt paths, and back roads, take
the ambient route to Azalea View;
I am a free bird flying everywhere
I choose, and each day's arc is
a wing, an impulsive wish hurling
across the sky; I am yards of blue
satin, my heart forever alert to
the rhythms of the clouds, and
I pass by Virginia Woods Pond,
the crystal pureness reflecting
the early sunset and green willows
beside the creek, my heart pounding
like the pulse of some invisible
drum, my spirit so wide awake;
I take the next curve to Sycamore
Trails that lead home, split a peach
galette with my honey who'd been
waiting patiently for me.

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