Twiglet #62

A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. A memory. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is. Leave a link, if you’d like your work read, but comments should not be expected. Twiglets are posted on Tuesdays.


46 thoughts on “Twiglet #62”

  1. Ah, my ‘png’ arrived silently before I did,
    Mid-winter Yawns
    I guess being used to the house noises I do not think of them as filling the air first off…
    the heat through ducts, the battery clock ticking, wind rattling siding…
    House is a tad quiet when one is an empty nester… 😉

    Liked by 2 people


    Listen to the wind exhale
    cool breath through tall trees.
    Perched birds bow.

    Where do the unkind words that escape us
    go to hide? They echo in the babel of wind;
    they tumble from invisible tongues of regret.

    Sometimes on that thin line
    between night and day
    the quiet air suspends its silence
    and sings stellar hymns.

    We breathe the gift of air,
    take in God’s benevolence,
    neglecting codas of gratitude.

    I heard your voice in the night sky,
    in the air of dream forests
    whistling come-on songs,
    that old familiar re-breath
    behind the curtain of my memories.


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  3. Air Full of Sound

    Somewhere out in space
    my grandma calls me to supper
    her pleasant country voice
    drifted there from the old
    home place so many years ago.
    And, maybe round Jupiter
    one could hear the sobs
    when my heart was bereft.
    Yesterday, I said a prayer
    and it is still wafting upwards
    or into another dimension
    and I think just maybe
    God can hear it all.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Not overall. The patterns are the same, but the details are different. There is less pavement, more grass and trees. And Nashville is in a basin–like a kitchen sink and now we live on the counter. Less to slow down the wind. In town we were looking up at the hills, now we look over to them.


  4. The air by the river
    fat and full,
    larded with the scent of geese,
    my dog sniffing in stereo –
    and Chinese opera thick
    with Empire,
    a woman singing eastward
    on wings of her losses
    from where she sits
    on the bench

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    1. Melancholic… as this day – so full of cold rain.
      “The air by the river
      fat and full,
      larded with the scent of geese,”
      There was something in our local paper about the return of snow geese to a local watering spot…

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