Dancing With The Wind
The dawning light spilled over
the forest floor and as I passed
this way I found myself in a new
direction of time given the heavens’
selfless passage I’d never foreseen
of a change in my future yet to
come and with a quiver in my heart
I wondered if it meant time spent
alone and if it were a sign to plan
for the future I didn’t know, but the
quietness I felt inside told me to
fasten myself on what I had and
to remember what I’ve learned
over the years to survive, if I must,
in a world may it be grim or not.
I’ve learned all my life ever since
I was as high as my mother’s knees
how to occupy my time doing
useful things whether they be
mending shoes, stitching clothes,
cooking all the meals on the stove;
in between I’d save paper dollars,
nickels and quarters for the candy
store two blocks round the corner.
And as I grew older my haven of
peace would always be sitting
upon my front doorstep and
waiting for the morning breeze
to come so I could dance with it
spinning all around me.
Pale Sunsets
Years ago God had given me tears
to wear and without any hope to
hang onto like a cat on a fence
sleep had been my only friend and
day by day I wore a necklace of
dying roses that marked my
depression someone had thought-
lessly left for me while I resist
the current of time waiting for it
to impatiently end, a tide recycling
itself again and again. I’d held onto
pale sunsets before they’d disappear
into nowhere, listen to the silence
left on sullen afternoons, imagining
a better life than the one I had now
where what little joy is soon gone.
In my mind I’d trace the paths that
would lead me to freedom, plug my
ears so I wouldn’t hear the warring
of words emanating from the kitchen.
One morning I wandered away all
by myself with crusts of bread to
a pond lit be a weak sun and II knelt
down quietly in my delight, watching
the beautiful swans happily gobbling
it all down.
A Tenuous Thread
It was as if someone had blown
out a red candle on Christmas eve
when I’d seen the recent pictures of
him three days ago; he, a dear friend
to me and my husband for years,
and to see him suffering from cancer
that riddled his face and body was
terrifying. He was skinny and scrawny,
his face and the state of his body like
an intricate strand of DNA about to
snap in half like a tenuous thread,
the months and days ahead of him
slowly unwinding; he and his wife
several states away, and I knew we’d
never make it to see him again for
the very last time. In my memories
I recall when he’d catch fish in the
river, hunt for agates and other prize
rocks on our rock hounding trips.
He’d been talented with his hands;
he could make anything grow in
his and his wife’s garden, and I can’t
help but remember the low acacia
wooden table he carved with his strong
hands. And he used to be such a card,
a man proud of his wit, too. There
was no way to see him except speak
with him again, and our hearts ached
for his wife who had to take care of
him. I aimed a prayer to heaven
imagining how his spirit must be
dwindling and being so wracked
by the morphine. God cast a little
love his way before his eyes
forever close.
ABOUT THE POET
Bobbi Sinha-Morey’s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, The Tau, Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Old Red Kimono, and Woods Reader.
Her books of poetry are available at Amazon.com and her work has been nominated for The Best of the Net in 2015, 2018, 2020, and 2021 as well as having been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020.
About the Author
