don’t know if it was the line dancing 
or beer, but
seeing everybody downtown when
they shut down the streets 
and we walk
where people park
once a month, beginning
in June
it teaches you that love
is alive
and being alive 

I wave my magic pen
It writes stories of love
It preserves our history
It weaves tales of adventure and fantasy of worlds far far away
The pen’s power is infinite
When ink flows, it can’t be contained
It can create new worlds
Realms
Above the earth in heaven and space
On earth, on land, and in the sea
And even inside it
The ink transcends dimensions
Our imagination fuels its power 

You wake with fear
Don’t be afraid
Shed no tear
I’ve come to your aide

We are here
Thanks to our elders
They came before us
Laid down their lives

Left their trust to us

Time and again
Generations have woven
Their place for us
We stand here today

This, their creation
Now ours to make new
Nurture your plant
Your body, your soul

To grow, to grow!
To learn again and again
To become, to thrive
At the feet of our ancestors

I am ghost skirting walls –
out of sight,
out of reach, but
not out of touch.  

Freedom unforeseen,
to be unseen –
no longer centerpiece nor
side piece nor
piece of meat.  

Now crepe-cloaked,
and silver-crowned,
I am crone –
mystery to the myopic,
revelation to myself.

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.