Talk to me of old love.

We talk of young love

as if it’s the only love that matters.

Those heady days fade.

Eventually.

No, talk to me about old love.

With its gentle patina of well-worn comfort.

Of another, knowing your thoughts,

knowing what makes your heart race with joy,

laying down dreams so you can find yours.

Talk to me of choosing the same one,

over and over,

and over;

even when it’s hard.

And one day to finally have our hands untwined by

death.

– Talk to me of old love.

Trials.

Some things are more beautiful simply because they are over.

We survived them.

And therein lies the beauty,

and the relief.

– Trials.

Survivor.

For another year,

You have given me

life.

I will never stop weighing the enormity of each

birthday.

Let my life continuously be a quiet

rebellion

in the face of my

evanescence.

For another year,

thank You.

– Survivor.

Look up, dear friend.

Look up, dear friend, look up.

Though your heart is

crushed

with the weight of broken dreams,

the earth is reminding you

that even the

barest branches bloom again,

in season.

Courage, dear heart.

Just like in nature, our lives go through seasons. And, sometimes it might seem as if the winter will never ease its grip on us.

But, take courage – Spring will come.

And (new) life will return to your heart.

Until then remember that even in the harsh barrenness of frozen soil, seeds are waiting for just the right moment to push through and flourish.

The feather.

The old man reached up with feeble hands. His unseeing eyes briefly lit up.

A weak smile on his face, “You’ve come,” he breathed as his life escaped the chains that had held him.

“It happens,” the nurse comforted his wife, “chemicals in the dying brain sometimes cause visions…” as a single white feather landed on the bed.