Andi Leigh Writes

When the sun blooms, Baring fangs plenty, Don't leap to me for comfort. You were blinded before The luminary divide. And with closed eyes you'll remain Even if locked within my arms.

There's an achiness Of little worth In everything that's known. Meaningless inklings Which overpower Value brought— Worry. Minds weaving existence And shaping who we are. Doubt in maker's eyes but Experiences for the rest. Maybe worth the pennies Or perhaps a priceless fate; Etched into generations. And there will be those rejecting— Solidifying sour inklings Of artist's remorse. It is not made for them, though Others reach out and Never let go.

I want to taste the greens Grown from a garden of my own. Though concrete fills the surrounding Area of my one-bedroom abode. When you live in urban places It seems you must make due With the limited amount of space That was leased to you. But luckily, in fact, I have a grass patch That needs tending. And next spring I hope to plant My greens in soil worth amending.

When the past sneaks up, What do you do? There's a bolting shock To your core; A capable flame wavers. Fragility might show its face And faces you never thought You'd see again smile. The past sneaks up, Flooding your shoes— Cementing you to endure The things you've hoped To forget. But you've never actually Been able to forget. And then it walks away.

It is August as I move  Through melting minutes. Days turn like read pages  With summer growing tired. And autumn coolness creeps  Upon beach-going days.