Droplets at times, as sweet as high notes plucked lightly on harp strings, attempt to wash me.
Waves at other times distort my facial muscles into, through, and out of closeted expressions once guarded by a loving inner protector.
Like the lookout for a band of thieves, this guard assesses the state of “the coast is clear,” careful that the space- the place- the time is right for this soon-to-be unearthed surge.
After the storm, a hint of renewal softly asserts a take-over, delicately breathing some faint sense of accomplishment.
My face’s skin newly moisturized with the maturity of fragility.
The tears’ formless body and mine linger together now in the abyss.
About the Creator
Constance Hart
My muses are colors, emotions, and expanded consciousness. I'm known as a Color Therapy Expert, Spiritual Guide, and Writer. I'm living/writing through the loss of my husband in physical form, while I experience him in non physical realms.
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