Frost

There is a frosty blanket on those days in the South, when cotton was king and division cut hearts of men and women. A lifetime ago. No, many lifetimes and generations ago. It’s her past. And a beautiful crop has a million stories to tell, if she could talk. She’d tell of the pickers and their pain. She makes warm the world with all her woven comfort. We sleep with her, wear her. She has a history. She has a future. Plump and white and pregnant with possibility, she lays in wait for machines to gather her for market. White and winsome, covering the South and all the world. A paradox of war and pain and warmth and frosty chilled relations. She, caught between the strife of people, owning, working in her fields. Way down South on her land. The frost is gone, the chill is warmed. She breathes peace now, in her fields and looks like heaven, a sea of clouds.

And he is frosting on my life. I, plain vanilla cake and he, rich cream frosting spreads a blanket on my soul and on my very life. Last night I dreamt of Paris for our 25th, the next one, he of Italy. This life made sweeter, richer in the aging. And in the dreaming. We may sit in zipcode here and never leave but in our dreams. But love is whipped up nonetheless. No less sweeter in the staying. I am covered by his care, spread on me, a covering. And I hold his heavy on the back of my baked being. The complement of two, was planned in Garden Eden. And today its richer still. So much lovelier when two walk tandem out into the world.

He changes seasons when He speaks. He says and it is so. First frost speaks of what’s to come, the earth holds change, like brittle illusion on the field. It looks like snow. Yet when morning is broken it is gone. The frost melts away with the breaking of day. Like all illusion. It never lasts.

Joining Laura and Amber C. Haines at The Run a Muck for her concrete word prompts. There is a wonderful commuity of writers there, exploring abstract themes around the tangible things of this life.

And I am linking with Michelle.

Women At The Farm

In the sharing of this place

We gather by reflective pond.

And share the past, the hurt and pain.

While cobb webs break by hand with broom,

Not knowing what tomorrow brings.

We curl beside the waters edge

And wrestle with a gentle breath,

The unknown places yet to come.

Smoke fills the air from grill and burn pile

And all the while

Grief shared is grief diminished

On the lips, of the women at the farm.

No ride of whimsy on the road

With men in search of folly in the wood.

A vigil held by weathered chair

As if the words can heal a soul.

The weathered chair bears  burdens well

Of words flung through crisp fall air.

Words of women woven on the porch,

A tapestry of trials.

Worn grease coat feels but  feather like

When compared

To the heaviness of the words,

That fall as jet-propelled autumn acorns on tin roof,

Like heart bombs dropping from azure blue

Heavens.

And won’t His Words heal our souls?

Proclaim the women at the farm.

This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.

John 15:11-15

I am joining my friends Sandra, Deidra and L.L. Barkat.

Have you discovered the beauty of wordcandy.me? Its delicious. Courtesy of the folks at Tweetspeak Poetry.