Reflections Upon the Morning
Canada Goose in for a Landing (Photo credit: wackybadger)
I stood on the porch just after dawn and a lone goose, silent, with gentle flicks of his great gray wings, glided directly over my head, descending in a flat angle toward the empty surface of the pond beyond the pines.
It troubled me to spy this lost piece of a greater puzzle, this misplaced symbol of the power of one in many and many as one.
I wondered if he thought he saw the image of an approaching comrade upon the mirror of water, before he shattered its glassy calm into hundreds of spreading circles, each containing diamond pieces of that figure.
The sun now fully risen, I left him to his rest and returned inside, where I passed the framed photo on the wall of Sharon—the smiling portrait from before she got sick.
And there upon its glass I noticed the reflection of my face—my cheek to hers—and I said, “Good morning, babe,” and didn’t feel so lonely anymore, at least for that day.
© Joseph Hesch 2013
This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Angles.”
a light in the attic (Photo credit: kevtori)
The fresh spring light cants just-so
through the windows of my soul
illuminating the dust specks I
set to roaming on this seasonal foray
up in my attic, inspecting things
I’ve left there and sometimes forgot.
Seldom do I rummage for anything
in particular. No, not really.
I’m drawn up here each April
like a spawning salmon,
instinctual and compulsive as
the sneezes trumpeting my return.
From behind the exercise bike, a glint
of post-equinox revelation flashes
upon pieces of incomplete old puzzle.
With unbent wire clothes hanger,
I root about in the sticky, nasty grime
for this compulsive remembrance,
always keeping its pieces at arm’s length.
Even upside down, soggy, some like broken mirrors,
they reflect the gaze of hot coffee-brown eyes
I managed to hold until I blinked
and dropped them, in a searing splatter.
I close the attic windows’ lashed curtains,
enough of this reflecting. Over the bike,
atop the puzzle, I toss a box of books
where they belong, into that corner of stories
best kept for another day.
Shared with the gang at dVerse for Open Link Night
Close your Eyes (Photo credit: Piccadilly Pink)
Matte and colorless, not black,
nor any shade of gray, is my Dark.
Even without gesture, no nuance other than
its lack of supposed visual,
to touch, taste, or smell within Dark’s embrace
slams sensory experience into me with vitality,
vast and vigorous.
How often needless is Light, the glow of clouds and snow
kissed by Sun, or the angled ray that would allow me
to perceive the hairs rise on your arm at my touch
in the Dark?
Why do you turn your eyes from Light
when it glares into your face? You close them
when you kiss me, when you smell a rose,
taste the finest sustenance. Close them now,
join me where there is no jangle of what may be real,
the Hall of Mirrors reflection of what you perceive
all your Its to be.
Beneath your present gaze exists Life I have created
from that you might curse, as you search,
with candle lit, for something you cannot hold,
if broken by once precious Light,
like silence crashed.