Posts for June 5, 2026 (page 6)

In the Shadows of a Little Boy:

Meandering through the dew-covered grasses at dawn, the slow bake of sweet magnolia surrounds me. A bewitching brew of memory covers me like a million burning moons. I can not catch my breath when I think of when our lips first met. Over a quarter century has passed and as I pause on this thought, I rejoice in knowing that our kisses are just souvenirs of the love we share daily.  We are getting older. Our grandson is growing. We are focused on his future.  But, how could we have known that while we are living and loving, there’s a whole world dreaming of blinded hydrangeas and a Nuclear Winter of doom?

©️Winter Dawn Burns

This world was never built for her,
The product of greed and injustice.
Hell-bent on destroying what created her,
She traces their steps into the shadows
And waits for the time to strike.
Her heart is stained with immorality,
Yet Corruption fears her.
She is the vengeance where justice dares not shine.
But she was never born to win-
A mishap made to be thrown out-
Only by tenacity still clawing to life.
Still, with oppression seeking to kill her at every turn,
She knows each day may be her last
So, she moves recklessly
Her blades drawing blood without regard or remorse.
Peace was never an option.

This is where we came to wander:
where waves tickled my childhood toes—
yours too, gnarled even then.
You, my Oma, bent over receding surf,
pointing out coquina clams and sand crabs
as they pushed back down, again and again,
among the broken fan shells, tan and white.
You showed me scallop shells—
vibrant reds, oranges, mottled purple-blues—
and weathered, spiraled tops of sea snails.
Foamy waters surged back and forth,
spouting breaths of deep salty sweetnesses.
I looked up when gulls laughed overhead,
or turned back round when sanderlings sprinted
past, plucking life from the sand.

Once you painted me on that beach.
Every day before I walk Lateef,
I see my five-year-old self on the wall.
Her slight smile follows me.
Some days I travel the corridors of time
straight back to June 1979.
I hear you laugh, and today say,
“You think you only now found poetry?”

My optimism is heavy

I want to gift my children 
with a childhood that feels 
like a sunbaked daydream 

I want them to think back 
and remember

sourdough loaves straight from the oven 
slathered with butter
learning the impossible art of waiting 
while it cooled enough to be enjoyed 

the faint echoes of 
I love you, I love you, I love you 
while holding hands, skipping in creek beds 
collecting freshwater mollusk shells 

the way they could surrender entirely 
into a warm embrace 
like a skydiver 
believing wholeheartedly
in their parachute 

putting hands deep into fresh soil 
filling flimsy pots to the brim 
putting one perfect seed in each 
learning how precious hope is 
how it imbues life with meaning 
when little else in the world 
makes sense 

Most of all
I hope they learn that love
isn’t something earned 
it’s something harvested 
easily and readily 
from the blossoming hearts
of those lucky enough 
to love them 
 

After Prometheus taught us what it means to burn but
Before Icarus fell —
Circe learned no magic is enough to make men stay;
Demeter saw her daughter
Engulfed in love’s dark flame and the
Fates upheld their decree —
Going “gently” has never been for the brave.
Hypatia, wise, eschewed it.
Idiots all, we sit slack-
Jawed while
Kings prove themselves
Loathe to love;
Midas’ touch is nothing to be craved.
Narcissus made even Echo fade,
Only giving time of day to his own visage.
Psyche met a happy end through
Queerest circumstance; perhaps
Romance truly is best when least expected.
Still, for us mortals mere, it ends.
Troy falls, Paris dies. We mourn
Until we learn to
Valorize our finitude,
Wipe our eyes, and rejoice in the presence of
Xenia – no matter how short-lived.
You’d be surprised at what you can survive once
Zephyrus shifts the winds.

I tried to follow
the rules

stepped into line
smiled at strangers

typed myself out
in numbers

sat surrounded
by tile and waiting

trudged to my car
unsecured

Are you proud of me?

Do you forgive me?

Are you sorry?

I look like a guide on a jungle cruise:
shorts grazing mid thigh,
white seersucker button down tucked in
(this, especially, is a prize,
sifted from the closet of a small dead man
at an estate sale in May)
warped leather belt I insist on buckling
too tightly around my waist,
hair wrapped up in a half up pony,
the bottom cinched by a scrunchie,
full eighties. Steve Irwin and I,
twin flames and shaggy blonds
(tomorrow I’ll step in stingray nests
that riddle the ruddy beaches around Jekyll;
may we rest in peace).

When we pull into the parking lot
of a little bungalow bookstore,
the owner smiles across the counter
as I slide Yesteryear into her fingers.
I love a book that tells me how to be.
Be grateful, Steve Irwin’s protege, 
of where you are. Be glad you can stand here
at this counter and buy a book
for thirty dollars that warns you
away from where you came. Be humble,
the past is right around the corner
and there is always time to take you back.
When the woman points at the screen
and prompts me for my card, I smile.
You bet!

i die in my dreams,
neon shapes til i wake up.
if you were curious, mostly pink triangles,
but also small red trapezoids,
bold and bouncing like a dell computer logo.
i try to say my throat feels like a car wreck,
and my mouth like the hospital
but instead you buy and drive
a stick right there into my brain,
and on the spot
two red lines. 
in june, flu b.