Burden
Bearing the burden of all the right things, honesty’s fragile fingers. -Katherine Gotthardt Photo by Benjamin Ranger on Unsplash
Growing In
Age grow in at the edges, each experience white, baby-fine. Try not to judge these wispy years while we become what we’re meant to be. -Katherine Gotthardt
Bedside
Bedside, I hold your plump hand, cold, white thread of foam sewing your lips shut, as if you disapprove of crying. It would be horrible if not for the knowing you’d transformed, universe having finished contracting, your soul sucked backed to the source, reverse birth, energy united, ready for reincarnation. How I’ll remember that exact
Placid Bay
for my mother-in-law on the morning of her passing These leaves, white with winter, and those frozen, spiky cones, then, a cement barrier, marked “no trespassing,” protecting a broken dam– seagulls pay no mind to signs. On the side of the rough road, two frozen dandelions, still yellow, look ridiculously optimistic, as a horn beeps
Comparison
My paltry decades of living and I cannot understand how mountains bear their memories. -Katherine Gotthardt
ReBirth
And there, amidst the mange, a tranquil tuft of growth, baby-haired, white. The whole world hummed, as if it, too, were new. -Katherine Gotthardt
History of the World
In latter days, the solar- scorched world proved heavy- handed, callous palms swiping back. Retribution. -Katherine Gotthardt
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Cucumber
That garden you decided to plant? How it took time to turn over the soil, get past the sweat, that insistent dust settling on your white sneakers. You cussed. Later you’d take that first bite of cucumber, squirting refreshment from summer rains, several thick slices inviting another serving. It felt a little like happiness.