Andi Leigh Writes

The snake Is not a devil leading— It holds what you know In the eyes of wanting, Slithering to answers You're too afraid To face— Inward is where Harshness sleeps, wrapped Up in a knotted gut While the guide flows And works as a harbinger  Worth noting.

There was a sun dance Over the climbing hills With its rogue limbs burning Through the battered grass, Making it apparent that It was no longer a long night. I sat on the hilltop Watching. Where do we go from here? The stars are asleep. The rain dries after feeding The fields. Is happiness all that is left? Maybe.

The color in the world is ours to bear, Despite tissue paper patience— Regardless of a boiling stream Wishing to dull the pigment of our hearts. It is a burden worth the walls of grim  Unpredictability.

I was spinning in darkness and slowly became aware of my upset stomach. I felt it gurgle, calling out to me in a way that did not beg for food, but in a way that begged for me to sit up in order to rush the stomach acid back in place. I was laying on my back. I could not open my eyes. They felt crusted over and I took my time to pull apart my sticky eyelashes, allowing a dim light to peek through. The light fluttered through my squinting eyelids and then I inhaled deeply, noticing the clean breath I had just taken in, and then with a slow exhale I tightened my eyelids and blinked open as hard as I could to separate the top lids from the bottoms. I hated when my eyes would feel sticky this way. I thought about my allergies and how tree pollen would do this to me every year. When I blinked I saw a gray sky and the tops of trees. The trees were tall, their branches swayed across the weathered sky. This confused me because I had no idea how I ended up waking up surrounded by trees. I wasn’...

There is something painful About waking in the sunlight, With nowhere to go, with No one to see once eyes Are flooded with possibility. The light calms the room Where loneliness sleeps Beside an exasperated soul. There are no cordial greetings. There are simply fleeting Mumbles of wanting.

There is heartbreak in a Nail-clipped fiasco. Energies are taken away and the will To ignore the spiral Is bashed against a brick wall— Bloodying knuckles And taking away claws.

Sprouts may reach and sway, Hoping for new sticks to climb Or blades of grass to overshoot— What kind of view will sprouts Wish to see When they are not so small— Towering over mountainsides, Watching the rivers flood— Knowing that even As tall as they are, A strong gust on the wrong day Could make their towers fall‚ but At least they can sprout again And renew forever.