'Vinegar'. Paragraph excerpt from a short story of mine.

My grip tightened on the memories I held, for when I looked at it, at the thick tower shaped glass with its simple plastic top, the color of sycamore leaves, I did not see what others saw. (Oh yes, I had captured the bland and careless look in their eyes at dinner parties when they grabbed it, to shake it’s contents clumsily upon their food, and then the slightly raised eyebrows as they wondered why I watched them until it was safely set back down.)

What I saw instead was the vinegar bottle in its native setting, in the tall wooden cabinet in the kitchen of my Grandparent’s house, behind mirrored doors that fascinated my nine year old self-for the mirrors were not plain, but made up of a pattern of vertical stripes a centimeter in width; alternating a shiny strip with one of frosted silver, through which no reflection returned.  Hence, a broken image of the girl that stared was delivered; with parts of eyes and just one nostril. No matter which she turned, fragmented.

The Smile of a Stranger.

 I walk alone at night,

In the cold.

My hands thrust deep in my pockets,

Its a lonely world,

And I hear only the sound of my boots

Crunching

In the freshly fallen snow.

Why is it all except myself

Are warm?

And in bed asleep?

The streets are deserted-

Post apocalyptical scenes 

Of signs swinging in the wind,

Wrappers blowing across the parking lot,

Meteorite snowflakes falling

From an otherwise black and empty sky.

Rounding a corner I see a man,

Walking towards me along the same path.

Too late to turn around

Or go a different way.

As he nears I feel my fingers clutch around keys

But glance up anyway, politeness ingrained in me

Like childhood dirt from

Too much playing in the fields.

His eyes meet mine momentarily.

He smiles, "Hello", 

My own voice reciprocates and we pass without pause,

Carrying on our separate ways.

Soft voice, kind eyes.

Too wrapped up in hat and scarf, darkness and milliseconds

To glean any other detail.

My hand unclenches, inside I relax.

Another wanderer looking for an answer, seeking 'the truth'.

Or perhaps he just ran out of milk.

Whatever.

Inexplicably a small candle lights in a dark room

In the house that I am passing.

Now, at last, I am tired.

I will go home, and sleep well tonight.

The Anticipation of Warmth

As he waits for the second quilt to fall

And warm him in his chilled state

I catch the look on his face-

The waiting, the anticipation-

Fleeting.

We all live like this,

Waiting for the second quilt.

And when it is laid upon us

It is thankfulness and comfort-

Love.

LOSS (Haiku)

Going Home.

It never changes, this place.

The light, the dark, the dry, the wet

Merely alter it's shadows

And yet

I  have changed.

Misplaced now, in my hometown

I sit by the river in lamplight pale,

The usual bench,

Inhale.

And I know.

The tendrils, of my growing,

Lie still, in withered dormant paths

Beneath the pavement.

I laugh.

They always will.

Autumn Age.

And as the leaves

Begin to change from green

To red

So too do I alter

And curl a little more

At the edges

Day after day.

 But at last

I do not care.

At all.

At last

It does not matter.

That I will

Eventually fall.

  For already I have won.

 I.am.here.

 Now.

That is the onus

And anything else

Yes, Life itself-

Is just a bonus.

WEB

WEB:

Oh flimsy web of living-

Made from silk so fine you shine-

We tangle ourselves up in you...

Create such intricate designs from your yarn,

Strive to make it perfect.

We embellish, we patch and we repair.

We are heedless of the bobbin's end.

And heedless of the coldest wind

That will someday surely blow.