Family
Socks of the Sun
The first light of morning always found Nani before anyone else in the house did. Not because the sun favored her — though some would swear it did — but because she rose quietly, as if waking a sleeping world required gentleness. She would sit by the window, knitting needles tapping in a rhythm older than any clock, her yarn glowing gold even before the sky agreed to brighten.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Poets
Where They End
A road, a stream, a path, a thought...they wind with logic, some grace, some planning, with a simple goal in mind. Start...and then finish. But roots? Those are fat and gorged on trickery. Yes, they have a purpose, but does that purpose have an aim? How large will our roots let us be? Will they let us survive storms and time and anger? Will they spread so long and far that the original sproutling has long been forgotten in the dust? Here's the secret...roots don't care about the past. The dig and turn, looking for ways around those that would end their progress. They feed and dive, rising to create a new world where the sun is perfect and the wind is kind. Yes, they started somewhere, but you may never find the end, because roots can last forever.
By Matthew Agnew2 months ago in Poets
