Fiction Friday

Ana lurches in bed, aching all over, exhausted.

Soon her son, Ethan, will come over for ‘cuddles’ and the day will begin, maybe more tiring than the night. Sweat covers Ana’s body, but she can’t shower before he comes, because she doesn’t want to wake him up earlier than he would by himself or make him cry when he sees the bed empty. He needs her hugs and kisses to start his day. Ana knows this too will pass.

Ethan crosses the little hallway in a gallop, then jumps up and throws himself on Ana. …

Turquoise Draws in Wildflowers

My fingers smell the charcoal in black, the musk in brown and the asphalt in grey. I let them linger on the keyboard where the white of letters summons the lemony of dove feathers.

The pine in the desk hints of puddles and mud, and I remember that if I want to inhale my dear forest I’d better touch green.

My tea-mug’s navy invokes fresh waters and I breathe in thinking of the clay. There might be a connection, because I feel scorched by the sun caressing the yellow sunflower silicone lid.

I favor the pink since it brings in…

In this amalgam of sheer incertitude

Released in a Thousand Symphonies

Inspired by Vixen Lea’s Fossils

We can pant across the clay
with the piss-ants
and pluck thorns from our palms
bleeding rivers
over the hard-packed earth;

I don’t want another poem
facing mortality.

I want the joy for life screamed
from the midst of thick forests
packed with creatures
swarming about their existence,
peaks of mountains,
tops of hills, roofs, if need be.

I want this gratitude
humbly surrounding me
released in a thousand symphonies
all synched in graceful
yet commanding melody.

I want the little things so many and so hidden layer after layer under infinite rugs of preconceptions…

Fiction Friday

Your tears are your salt my sweet and as I wiped them away I liked them to stay in my heart, not only as a memory of you, your tender-heartedness, your graceful sensitivity, and your empathy, but also as a reminder to try my hardest not to hurt you.

No, I don’t see you as the delicate flowers you so adamantly preserved between whatever papers were near, because when I dropped them by mistake I may have broken a petal or two. I don’t want to ever drop you or hurt your petals. …

The insecure being sharing a body with me

What would I set free?
My pain.
I’d let it come out in waves or at once,
float out of me or drip drop by drop,
anyway would do,
if I could set it free.

What would I set free?
The child in me.
Trapped in woven traps, so intricate it hurts,
I’d cut out all the web, I’d release all the cuffs,
I’d gently touch the bruises,
kiss away the scars.

What would I set free?
My thoughts on these pages,
let them jump through lines,
persuade them into words,
nudge them into stories,
let them fly alight.


Georgia Lewitt

Mom, spouse, health, fitness and yoga lover, traveler, nature appassionata. We are passers-by. Smiles are free. Words matter.

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