Quiet Prospects



I guess I’ve changed

My place now is quiet

A little dark solitude

The wind captures in its hands

And spins

So in the middle

Sit I

Watching, waiting

While on the outskirts

Crickets chirp

Frogs croak a chorus

For the beginning rain


My wandering mind skims the edges

Where once I’d beat myself up

Like a bug killing itself against the light

Now I let it flicker

In close proximity

So if I so choose

I can enter the wilds once more


Even the wilds are different

They’re still resonant

Of the younger girl


Sometimes uncontained

Only they leave a touch of new spring


On the end of winter


And that’s okay

I’ve walked through enough

Hidden doubts

To arrive here

Knowing to go back

Is a whimsy

For the dissatisfied


I can see my young girl face

Brush itself against the rugate

Of time spent


To get the sense of gold


Not all of it

Is at the end of the rainbow

There’s an alluvial presence


In the stream

Fished for on many different banks


Perhaps I’ll fish some more


If I don’t

There’s a pleasant feeling

Knowing the wilds still call

And I can take a dip


I’m of a mind


13 thoughts on “Quiet Prospects

  1. not all of it is at the end of rainbow….great line that..and evocative….also like how you keep the light close to you can go to the wild but dont bump into it like that insect….it is nice you can dip back into those wilds…when they call…smiles.

  2. I love the moment of “dark” solitude in the specially the opening lines ~ Also the calling of the wild, its like you always keep that connection ~

    Nice to see you OLN ~

  3. Awesome write, Dianne. My favorite line, “Like a bug killing itself against the light”. One of our human frailties is that of beating ourselves up.
    As for the going back, I was really in the mood for that yesterday. The guy at the post office took my photo for a passport, and I accused him of doing black magic. The photo was not of me, you see, it was my GRANDPA!! DOH! (I need to make a poem out of that experience, I reckon.)

    • Oh dear how dare he wave his black magic about…I suppose at first we look like our parents and as time marches on our grandparents…ah the travesties of age. I look forward to your poem Charles. So glad you enjoyed mine. 🙂

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