In a time of pop hits and Top 20s, we are a classic symphony;
a seamlessly perfect piece that took ages to complete;
a story told between the lines, when given a chance to speak;
a harmony dismissed by the masses in trendy brand names.

We are a dance of percussion and strings--
the intertwining web of violin and cello;
a building crescendo of passion 
and a steady release of compassion.

We will move in beautiful, hypnotic unison, Dolce.
And when the symbols clash, we rise to our feet, together.
Forte, fortissimo. Molto vivace. Sforzando. 
The tempo races wildly like heartbeats.

And as the world raves and rages for immediate satisfaction,
our symphony will bring beautiful tears and true emotions, Sempre.
​Countless generations will be left in awe of our timeless story;
our patience, our love, our faith, the infallible flow of music.

The universal composer is still working, still perfecting our piece
because masterpieces come with struggles and years of work;
building & breaking, ups & downs, ebbs & flows, life & death.  
A Symphony, my love, is what we are; what we've been waiting our lives for.

Until then, I will be the cadenza and you can be the crescendo.
One unknowing day, our separate melodies will find their resolution
and we will make perfect, beautiful, breath-taking sense together;
our solos becoming a timeless ensemble; a perfectly crafted symphony.

A message in a bottle--
writing crawls across the paper like pulsating veins;
a secret bottled up like a spirit that alters the mind,
corked with a dream, a hope, a desperation.

Sandcastles--
a facade of strength decoded in whimsy,
made with the crumbling shards of rock
that were no match for the ocean.

Tidepools--
a world inside of a world, like goldfish in a jar.
We poke and prod and pretend we are gods
while they swim for their lives, floating in oblivion.

Sea foam--
A garden of souls tumbles on the waves,
collecting in the graveyard of rocks,
where seaweed drags across the art of gods.

Beachgrass-
like a god that patiently watches,
silently needing help, and hoping
not to get trampled by humanity.

Clouds--
scrape across the sky;
a thinning patience, and
those who see without doing.

Breezes--
invisible, but determined to be heard;
a calming nuisance that
sticks its nose in everything.

The waves roll by in a whoosh,
like a winded runner.
The sun screams in delight,
like a child shoveling sand.

Like a seagull hovering over the shore,
humanity passively hopes for a crumb of salvation,
easily found in the path of destruction.

Unlike the waves that work for it,
seaweed travels only to trip over
​grainy remains that once stood strong.

I had nothing to chase but broken dreams which is why I ended up here.

Sometimes the only thing some people know how to do is fall and they fall hard. We always feel our weight as we plummet, feeling heavier as the air rushes past. We wait until the weight we carry crushes us at the end. Only, the landing is soft: a cool Unforeseen cradled my fall; disappointment caught up to my shoulders in no time, but the strange feeling of curiosity carried it.

The unknown is chilling, never warm or welcoming. The icy obscurity followed with empty footsteps, constantly tapping my cold shoulder with uncertainty. Life is never easy here, but it is whimsically terrifying. The type of terror that keeps one foot in front of the other as we search for the light at the end of the tunnel--though we are in a vast empty space, full of breathy echoes and resounding second-thoughts.

Any hint of confidence is swept away with the currents of counter-clockwise thinking.

​Welcome to the Rabbit Hole... for what it's worth.

My thoughts drip
slowly
down the window(,)
pain
of my soul.

Inside, the storm
rattles
the heart, (and) painfully
shatters
the glass within.

Flashes of enlightenment
blind.
Not seeing (much) beyond
​shadows
of sulking doubt.

The summer wind, and
dew-covered grass, and
cold rushing river water, and
tiny gems of tumbling sand
tripping,
crashing,
bubbling
over my toes.

Looking down and seeing 
dry, and
cracked, and
dirty, and
nail-polish chipped edges
of my feet
are memories of
my favorite shoes.

In the garden of my pre-school,
(despite the school rules)
it was in those shoes I learned to lose
and had to heart-wrenchingly choose
through the bruises of a world no longer black and white.

And as a child, in the park,
(even after stepping on broken glass)
it was in those shoes where I yelled yahoos & wahoos
and experimented with hairdos & curfews
with friends who sadly went down other avenues.

And as a teenager, in the passenger seat,
(perched with hot pink nail polish on the dashboard)
it was in those shoes where we talked through issues
and those unending sleeved-tissues of blues and abuse
where, within each other, we gladly found amuse.

And in college, where I lived in flip-flops,
(with a special lime-green pair for the shower)
it was in those shoes where I courageously got my first tattoo,
and cruised the night with friends and booze whose
overuse was the realization of a breakthrough.

And on that special day when I said "I do"
(my bare feet tickled a trail of rose petals)
it was in those shoes where down the aisle I cruised
and made my debut as Mrs. Nathaniel Hugh
as we celebrated our romantic, sandy rendezvous.

And on that scary and exciting due date
(hoping it wasn't another false alarm)
it was in those shoes, in stirrups, void of the views
that would deliver the news and a wave of "Woo!"s
​until finally I held my beautiful little honeydew.

As life continues, and
time marches on, and
kids grow older, our
life turns to death;
tripping,
crashing,
bubbling 
over our timelines,

I look down to see my
dry, and
cracked, and
dirty, and
arthriticly misshapen 
wrinkled feet, and smile
at the memories shared
in my favorite shoes.

I lost myself in a dollhouse.
It was picture-perfect;
a mirror image of my house,
if I was Alice in the Looking Glass.

But
I wanted a treehouse, that
looked over both my world
and The World. So I could
dream about Some Place Else.

And
I wanted a treehouse, so that
I could laugh freely and 
dream under the stars, far 
from this House Behind Bars.

But I was given a dollhouse.
It was a forgotten dream;
my mother's hopeful future,
of Nothing Is What It Seems.

I sit beneath my dollhouse
and look up at this perfect little unit
of plastic perfection and painted smiles
and I forced the little girl to quit.

So
I yanked her from her doting parents
and placed her on the roof,
where she could see a better future,
though all I see is my room.

It's that type of morning that you thought was night,
sitting around the campfire in the twilight, or
riding on those back country roads in the moonlight.
Nothing but our enthusiasm reaching a new height.

Pinhole mornings--
Where you squint to see
a glimmer,
a hint,
a spark
of adventure.

Yes! You say at three a.m. when nothing but the crickets sing,
we talk about the possibilities tangled in our shoestrings
and never worried about feeling reality's cold and adamant sting.
Because right here, right now, these memories are King.

Pinhole mornings--
Where we peel back 
the layers,
the hesitations,
the formality
of freedom.

We never expected the sun to rise or the night to end,
everywhere we didn't look the world seemed to pretend;
living without a care, never running out of our stipend.
Heads and hands, running down the road as we set the trend.

Pinhole mornings--
where night ends,
before the conversations,
and we
live to
be in
the now.

Inside all of us we take the time to inhale and impale;
Nail our frail, calloused hearts carefully to the 
Doornail. In detail, we downscale our
Emotions, all of them fragile. Nevertheless, we
Prevail; our faces perfectly pale--topped with a high ponytail,
Enduring the stale catcalls and telltale gestures,
Not giving into the blackmail; that retail fairytale that would
Derail the female.
Exhale.
Nothing will resale that folktale more than
The full-scale strength of a woman after a dumbass male.

Annalie hadn't slept all night and neither had Mason. Annalie was about to lose it. She needed a break; she needed Eddie.

Had it been a week already, since she had to say good bye? Shadows seemed like punching bags under her eyes as she rocked Mason in that old wooden rocking chair. A zombie, she stared out the window, almost immune to Mason's shrieks. Dawn was growing, shedding light onto a snowless world. The colors outside were too bright. The grass was too green, the sky was too blue, the plants were too vibrant. Winter needed to come--snow needed to fall. The white blanket would tuck away the colors, the grey sky would reflect her woes. Everything just needed to be muted, to quiet down for a few peaceful moments.

Staring into hopelessness, Annalie watched the sun rise, chasing the long shadows across the field. It was another too warm, too sunny, January day in northern Minnesota. 

The days blurred together. She knew she needed to take care of bills, her late husband's affairs, and figure out what to do with Mason when she went back to work. Could she afford to keep the house? But all she could do was pace the hallway with Mason leaving behind a trail of tears. 

It was late in the evening when Annalie placed Mason in his bassinet, fists flailing. She needed a break. With heavy eyelids, she sunk down beside him in the overstuffed chair that Eddie liked to read in. She'd often find him in the lamplight with his glasses--that he didn't like to wear in public--reading Arthur Conan Doyle, or Agatha Christie, or Herman Melville. He enjoyed his job as an English teacher at the high school and her mind floated to another memory of Eddie.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Annalie asked. She waddled down the stairs and held her pregnant belly. Their first-born son was due soon. The heat of August was making Annalie's patience thin, no matter how pleasant life was being. Now, though, in the coolness of night, she was a bit more peaceful. 

She sat on the arm of the chair and draped her arm over the back. Eddie leaned his head against her stomach and the baby went wild. Eddie sighed in contentment. Words were lost in this moment; a moment when they realized their family was now three.

A refreshingly cool breeze raced through the screen in the window. "If I could get you anything right now, what would it be?" Eddie asked. Annalie, for some reason, never had weird cravings during her pregnancy and it was one thing Eddie looked forward to. He wanted to go out in the middle of the night for pickled herring and a can of pumpkin pie filling; he was eager to help in that way. 

Annalie sighed with a smile. Her hand played with Eddie's dark brown hair. "Snow," she said longingly. Wisps of her hair clung to the sweat on her forehead. Being so heavily pregnant in the summer was nearly unbearable for Bailor women. She longed to trudge through the crunching snow in a pair of boots, to hang her wet gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry, and watch the flakes float down from the sky from beside the fireplace.

Unexpectedly, Eddie jumped from his chair. "Coming right up!" he said and ran to the kitchen. Annalie was curious but sunk into the chair and decided it wasn't worth the effort to climb out of it just yet. It was warm from Eddie's body heat, but she didn't care. 

Annalie nearly fell asleep in the cool breeze, despite the noise Eddie was making in the kitchen. When Eddie reappeared, he held a bowl out to her full of snow. A smile broke across Annalie's face--a rare occurrence this late in the sweltering summer season. "You made me snow?" she asked, happily taking the chilly bowl from his hands.

"I'd make you a blizzard if I could, but I hope you'll settle a bowl of crushed ice for now," he said, kissing her forehead.

The memory made Annalie sniffle. She had dozed off and found herself draped over the same chair. The world felt different, almost comfortingly. Mason's cries had ceased! Sitting up, she stretched a kink out of her neck, careful not to make a sound. She wanted to hold onto this peaceful silence for as long as she could. It was like the silence that falls just after a hearty snow, where the world sighs in its beauty.

Annalie glanced out the window, ready to sigh at the sight of the lack of snow. A smile cracked across her face at the sight of large winter pennies falling against the velvet sky. It climbed up the walls, halfway to the window pane.

A blizzard! Tears fell down Annalie's cheek with a mixture of emotions and the wind howled along with her cries. A coat draped itself around the house--just how Eddie draped his jacket around Annalie when she refused to wear a coat in the fall--she wanted to feel the cold seep into her pores and erase the summer heat.

All night the snow fell, each flake a supportive hand on her shoulder. When the sun finally did rise, on what would have been Annalie and Eddie's ninth wedding anniversary, the snow reached the windows and it still fell, but lightly now.

Under a blanket in the threadbare chair, beside her sleeping son, Annalie slept soundly, conjuring memories and visits from Eddie in her sleep. Serenity finally seemed to settle upon that house. She was snowed in. Safe. A glimmer of hope sparkled on the untouched cover of purity that protected the house. Annalie was no longer alone.