A Leaf in Space

*** Submerged in empty vastness,

No star lungs offer breath to passing ships, yet

Stillness does not conquer.

No viscous jail captures vessels in friction.

Objects stay in motion;

So decrees the movement law,

Though here in starscape ocean

Currents do not space-birds draw.

So cast a frond to frozen sky

And though no wind catch sails,

Through galaxies the sheet could fly

Through vacuum’s stormless gales.

Lonely leaf might float, then

From first to final sigh of stars.

So what can firefly gloat, then

Of lifetime stuck in heav’nly jar?

Nor could brag a pebble

To ever-winding slingshot bound

Though rock, Goliath leveled,

These Davids turn for eons round.

But here detached from forest hand,

Tree finger rakes the sky

And wanders through the barren land

To witness lights that die.

No tears are shed for flick’ring bulbs if no one sees them fail,

So space-bound leaf must weep for all a holy, somber pail

Then take that water far across the solar system sea

And offer it as drink to roots of universe’s tree.

Grief of stars collapsed collect and water droplets form.

Freezing, then, they shatter into interstellar storm.

Cosmic trunk absorbs the glass a most impressive way

As ice impaling bark produces crystalline array.

From body of the ancient tree a sap begins to run,

Its blood exacted for the deaths of long-forgotten suns.

But shards of frozen water catch and focus heav’nly beams,

Collimating photons into ice-infested seams.

Within the glands,

The shine dust stands

And golden halos form.

Holding tight

To hands of light,

Their song, space-ocean warms.

And as they circle round and round, they rise to meet the branches,

Following the crooked stems and synchronizing dances.

Walking now in matching step, ascending inner wall,

They interfere constructively and form a gleaming ball.

Then from the tree is born the child of starlight without cry,

As silent lines of photons scream existence to the sky.

Gathering shine infant in his tear-collecting bowl,

The space leaf hums a lullaby to newly-fashioned soul.

As baby coos
In heav’nly hues,

New beams begin to run.
Filling night
With rays of light,
From just-created sun.

New light appears
On earthly spheres,
Their legends to inspire

And homage pay
To stars unmade:
Those long-extinguished fires.

The Rain

                He opened his unwilling orbs with the usual difficulty, squinting hard and blinking over and over, while a shaky hand fumbled with various objects piled up on his bedside table, searching for the little lenses that would bring into focus the world which seemed to be spinning in circles around him.  When he finally found them, he took the glasses from their place and made an effort to sit himself upright.  He failed, unfortunately, and resolved to slump back into his bed and stare at the ceiling while he worked up the fortitude to try, try again.  As he waited patiently for his aching heart to return to its regular rhythm, he made the decision to place his glasses delicately onto his nose and push them up into the groove they had made for themselves over the years.  The white blur that was the ceiling now revealed hundreds of swirling, plastered waves, breaking on the shores that were his walls and scattering the light that poured in through his window on every foamy peak.  Or maybe it was just a ceiling.  But he was behind schedule, and there was no time to deliberate the matter any further, so the man sat up, successfully this time, and squinted as the sun's rays intruded through the gaping gateway of glass that so warmly welcomed the new day.  Note to self, he thought.  Close the blinds.

                Now fully awake, the man had little trouble hoisting himself onto his feet with some help from his cane, which, fortunately, had not slid from its place, propped up against the side of the bed, during the little tumble he had taken just a few moments before.  He grabbed a pair of underwear from the dresser beside the window and started off toward the shower.  Short, shuffling steps to the thump, thump of the stick in his right hand eventually took him around the bed and into the master bathroom.  As was his ritual every morning, the man left his faithful cane leaning against the bathroom wall, trading it for the support of the ceramic counter top in which the sink was embedded.  Staring into his own eyes, he saw that they looked remarkably similar to the way they had the day before and the day before that one, as did his pointed, scraggly nose, his drooping ears, and his jumbled teeth.  When he finally grew tired of his own, wrinkled reflection, he took a few steps back and took a seat on the edge of the bath to give his legs a rest.  Moments later, he scrambled back onto his feet, leaving his pants and the underwear he had carried in with him behind and shivering from the November cold.  He placed his glasses next to the sink, and stepped carefully into the shower, making sure not to slip on the puddle left from yesterday.

                Then came the rain.  This was his least favorite part of every single morning to date.  Every day, he would spend at least ten minutes trying to find that magic in-between: the temperature that was hot, but not scalding-- the temperature that would warm his weary bones and soothe his achy joints without burning his sensitive skin.  It was a traumatizing experience that he simply could not avoid without being rejected by the better part of society, and, some days, he thought he would rather face that rejection than the shower head.  Tomorrow, he thought, I'll run a bath.  He knew he wouldn't.

                Normally, he would wash up, towel down, get dressed, take his time eating his breakfast, and head out to the garden, where he loved to spend his days with the leaves, the sun, and the birds.  Normally, he would hum hymns and push his wheelbarrow up and down the yard, filling it with undesirable odds and ends that he had clipped from his various plants.  Normally, he would pull the weeds, rake the leaves, and trim the trees until his wife called him in for lunch.  But that was normally.  He still lathered himself with soap, though he had no need for shampoo, then let the water take it away.  He still patted himself dry with the same towel he'd left hanging over the side of the shower the day before.  And he still dressed himself, starting with the shorts he had brought with him into the bathroom and the glasses he had set beside the sink , but he wouldn't be going out to the garden today.

                After a what felt like a long walk back to where his dresser sat, he again retired his cane to its place by the bed and looked out into his yard.  Leaves of every color littered the ground and birds of every song invited the sun to climb past the clouds and warm the cool ground.  He managed a smile at this, as he reached a shaky hand into the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a pair of black socks and a white undershirt.  He gave in to gravity, letting it drag him down onto the bed as he pulled the shirt over his head, then bent over and slid the fabric tubes over his ankles.   Another journey across the room to the closet, which contained the majority of his formal wardrobe, demanded that he take his cane once more from its place and trudge to where he found his collared shirts and creased pants hanging neatly in the dark space.  He ran his hand along the wall until he felt the light switch and flicked it to the 'on' position, providing just enough light for him to discern the black pants from the blue ones; he was looking for black.  He found a suitable pair and took them from their hanger, along with a black sport coat, a white dress shirt, a black, leather belt, and his favorite tie. 

                He took the clothes over to his bed and set them down, then stepped, one foot at a time, into the black pants he had chosen.  He pulled them all the way up his long, wobbly legs, then slipped on the shirt, carefully matching each button with its hole.  He tucked his shirt into his pants, which he then zipped, buttoned, and belted.  A glance at the clock on his wall told him that he didn't have long, so he quickly fastened the green, striped tie around his neck, adjusted his collar, and donned the sport coat, buttoning the top button as he bent over to find his shoes.  They were under the bed, already by his feet, so he slid them out in front of him, took a seat, and put them on, carefully knotting each one.  A few stomps assured him that they were secure, and so, with the support of his cane, he rose again from the bed, took his flat cap from the closet wall where it hung, flicked off the light, and started down the hall, wishing he'd had more time.

                When he reached the door, he paused.  He took a deep breath and whispered a quiet prayer, then he put on his hat, opened the door, and stepped out into the rain.

Sneak Peek: My First Short Story

The following is a DRAFT of the BEGINNING of my first short story, which, so far, has no title.

                He opened his unwilling orbs with the usual difficulty, squinting hard and blinking over and over, while a shaky hand fumbled with various objects piled up on his bedside table, searching for the little lenses that would bring into focus the world which seemed to be spinning in circles around him.  When he finally found them, he took the glasses from their place and made an effort to sit himself upright.  He failed, unfortunately, and resolved to slump back into his bed and stare at the ceiling, while he worked up the fortitude to try, try again.  As he waited patiently for his aching heart to return to its regular rhythm, he made the decision to place his glasses delicately onto his nose and push them up into the groove they had made for themselves over the years.  The white blur that was the ceiling now revealed hundreds of swirling, plastered waves, breaking on the shores that were his walls and scattering the light that poured in through his window on every foamy peak.  Or maybe it was just a ceiling.  But he was behind schedule, and there was no time to deliberate the matter any further, so the man sat up, successfully this time, and squinted as the sun's rays intruded through the gaping gateway of glass that so warmly welcomed the new day.  Note to self, he thought.  Close the blinds.

                Now fully awake, the man had little trouble hoisting himself onto his feet with some help from his cane, which, fortunately, had not slid from its place, propped up against the side of the bed, during the little tumble he took a few moments before.  Short, shuffling steps to the thump, thump of the stick in his right hand eventually took him around the bed and into the master bathroom.  As was his ritual every morning, the man left his faithful cane leaning against the bathroom wall, trading it for the support of the ceramic counter top in which the sink was embedded.  Staring into his own eyes, he saw that they looked remarkably similar to the way they had the day before and the day before that one, and when he finally grew tired of his own, wrinkled reflection, he took a few steps back and gave his feet a short rest while he relieved himself.  Moments later, he scrambled back onto his feet, leaving his pants behind, placed his glasses next to the sink, and stepped carefully into the shower, making sure not to slip on the puddle left from yesterday.

                Then came the rain.  This was his least favorite part of every single morning to date.  Every day, he would spend at least ten minutes trying to find that magic in-between: the temperature that was hot, but not scalding-- the temperature that would warm his weary bones and soothe his achy joints without burning his sensitive skin.  It was a traumatizing experience that he simply could not avoid without being rejected by the better part of society, and, some days, he thought he would rather face that rejection than the shower head.  Tomorrow, he thought, I'll run a bath.  He knew he wouldn't.