Random thoughts upon reflection each time she awakens from her sleep. Regurgitating morsels as she continues to read her novel, Ammachi, A biography of Mata Amritanandamayi.
sommeil, sommeil!
enveloppe moi dans ton duvet
rêveries divins
tears on her feet
unaware of the lotus
droplets of remorse
spider pauses
frog on a lotus pad-waits,
simply plays dead
budding purity
compassions’ embracing arms
a lotus blossoms
(c) Tournesol’15
She looked out to the river. The rumbling rapids helped to quiet her pulse. She sat crossed legged on the flat stones and gave a child’s bucket to her grandson to fill and water the lilies on the shore. Back and forth he repeated the dunking; sauntering to the shore, splashing water on the bed of lilies. Suddenly, the little guy asked , “Why are you crying, Nana?” He pointed to a teardrop slipping down her cheek. She looked stunned, having been in another world for a few seconds, “Oh, I’m not crying, sweetheart, I was daydreaming about butterflies.”
Butterfly wings
caress her cheek
banished tear
© Tournesol’15
It was late at night between Christmas and New Year’s, January, 1968. A time where mini skirts,fish-net stockings and short pea coats were the fashion…never warm enough for those winters in Quebec. A tuque or beret was fashionable but never worn covering the ears…that would not be stylish. The walk from the rec centre was several kilometers to her home by the river. How he fell in love with her baby blues…
Beneath wintry skies
pulls her close to him
gasping
~
beneath wintry skies
shivering in their Sunday best
holding hands
pulls her close to him
hearts beating
deafening
gasping
lips moistened like morning dew
their first kiss
© Tournesol ’15
