Andi Leigh Writes

I feel my toes in the fog. They ache—anchoring down Like the buried roots Of despondent trees. There is no mirror above, There is only The thick slate hue Of a single cloud—paneling A layer of what today means. I feel my fingers in the fog. They twinge As the melancholic air does During the autumn churn. There is no mirror above, We are the evaporating rain With waning fingerprints, Like the morning moon— In an existence that burns.

A scarecrow spits Sunflower seeds In hopes of meeting New friends, But they do not show— Not for the scarecrow, Not for the seeds, And his tears cannot Be wiped away— The ropes are much Too tight And the crows desire Hardier cords.

Who will we be In the next ten years? Will our home be the same? Will our tastebuds falter, Changing with twists we Never saw coming? Will we recognize who we see When we brush our teeth Or comb our hair? What about new glasses? Will colors look old or new? I hope the breeze will at least Feel the same As well as the embrace we Fall into with each other Every day.

This year will soon sink Into the next frame, Taking some of us with it— Things will be the same, And we fight for change That won't fruit in our time, At least we are not Left behind—we can't stay Inside, There's work to be done When the past cries, we'll Waste time and sink as well With a fated death knell.

Maybe we shouldn't Drown out the sound. Instead, we can attempt To embrace every Head-splitting symphony; Realizing that moving past Uncomfortable silences Is the way to go sometimes. That noise will turn To a buzz—then a hum And then nothing at all.

Tangled in the woods Is a heart left cold, But it thrives in the bark, Feasts on the flora, and Nourishes the worms And the fungi that Communicates change. The heart is not alone, It is the foundation Of corners preserved.

Water cracks across the floor— Like glass shards, Sprayed against a tattered photo Of people you've once known. Life spills forward and no one Is ready to blink and see the cracks. Sponge up the water and keep the Bubbles intact—they're much Too soft to stand sharp edges.

Has it rained today? I can't tell— But the outside looks damp And gray sweeps over The radiance—it feels cold And quiet, Maybe it did rain and I Missed the view. I feel the clouds hover Over the plants outside— They seem tired too.

When the sky is a sea, And planes are ships Chasing clouds that act Like whales Pushing through the open air And sending its waves Crashing to the dry Life below its stretching tail, Are there islands we can Land on? Are there pools that will swallow Us into nothing but the light Of the cheering sun? It's a sea where we will Never be, Much like the ocean below, Mostly unexplored.

Replay the hills And dead deer have No ties To the hustle we deem A necessity—to the Impatient call of the clock Ticking—tapping a watch We can't touch, But the deer had life In its eyes once While some have a routine That can't be slowed.

I'll cherish vapid expression Over false sincerity. Lights loom and die— Wheels hit rocks but keep on, Ignoring the potholes. There is no harm in candor But in a masquerade— Cackled stones break luster.

We have a note from sheltered places, Begging for us to retreat to the gratitude Of a wood-burning stove and a pot of Tea—peppermint—with relief smoldering In the coals that hold our stare.

When your world is small You can have a big mind. Allow everything to fit In your pockets— Making room for adoration Of your world so small.

Eat the rush of a whirlwind, There's no trouble at all. Formalities belong in the dirt, Or rub the selfishness From your eyes that bite Into everyone that sleeps. They'll wake up too without Your gnawing molars. The center will spit you out Instead—you'll see Where you are in the world.

Let us scribble on this page, Coloring outside of the lines— We'll shade where we want. We can smile and let our Guard down—no one cares So why should we? Our pages are meant for Our eyes and these pages are The echoes that run Through us—so let us scribble And bleed our sentiments.

With love, you'll grow tall, Like the mountains that kiss clouds, Like the flocks of geese that soar For warmth away from dark days. With love, your eyes will share secrets, Like the passageways that vein Through treasured homes, Like the meanings in lyrics meant for A single soul.

There is pain in early mornings, Whispers love intrusive dawns, Frogs are croaking by the lilies, Bones are waking to the song Of cicadas in the heat of noon, The itch of ragweed rustles by, Starlight fades when eyes are Open in the lateness of the time.

Midnight snuck up Right behind me. For some reason, The footsteps were not Heard, but here it is— The very next day Ripping me forward When I wasn't ready For the starting line.

Has your dark bedroom ever Felt like a fish bowl? Not one that's cramped But one that's oddly comforting— With the night pouring in Like ocean water And you're floating Within yourself—not outside Of the body that desperately needs Loosened shoulders And a steady gulp of the stillness That has somehow filled A room and body that typically Disallows this type of repose.

A cricket chirped Then stepped into my palm. I covered it With my other hand so I Could return it to its home. I never thought I'd be okay Feeling an insect's thin legs Step against my skin. The cricket crawled—my skin Did not. It went safely home.

While there can be infinite colors That you let into your life, The bleakness you've repelled Will stalk and wait— Searching for a crack in the light To flood with infection. So simply seal the pinholes With the gold you've collected, With the strong heart that pumps Your blood, Or meet it with the muddied Palette that carries Unpleasantries—it can't be worse! Some methods may heal And others may only slow the spill. And there's always a chance For terrible spores to exist In all the colors, Making them fade, but if you Keep a close eye on the corners, The vastness of your life May never grow dull, And your diligent work will pay off.

Goodnight to the ones Who are lost. Safety is around the corner And the moon Will guide. There's no need to be Terrified.

Hellos and goodbyes— We say them all the time. There's always a reason To avert the eyes And say a greeting With a sticker smile But inching for a goodbye That will take a while.

When a dragonfly hovers nearby, I wonder what it would speak of— What words would apply? Would the dragonfly talk Of mosquitoes that would Beg for their lives? Would it brag about the distance It has traveled—the landscapes It has rushed by? I can imagine one telling me Of its birth And when it first discovered Land and the sky. I would love to see the views As a wayfaring dragonfly— To know the world Through an unexpected eye With a sweeping life And many adventures Up until a fulfilled goodbye.

My nighttime heart Settles In the white noise While midnight's Placidity Lures the heaviness In me To surrender.

I am A silent web Catching clarity In the shade Of a tumultuous September day.

There goes another day. It was easy as well. And now the couch Cradles us As we fix our hunger And not talk about How things went because for once It was uneventful and We are busy with dinner.

I want to hear cellos on the winds And we can dance in wheat fields— Like a dream I may have binned. The rain will pour around us But our clothes will stay dry And the glow from the moon will Brighten our eyes—our eyes that Are wide awake in the dreamy fields That we'd never touch while we're Counting ordeals, while lucid In the hours of the afternoon And tired from the brightness of The fantasy-filled moon.

Tonight I want to reject the whir Of the fan that sits on the floor. I'd be grateful if the creaks Living in the ceiling would suffocate. I want to hear an absence of The usual comforts and distractions. Tonight I want nothing, An impossibility—there's always Something And even if there was nothing at all, I'd be tossed into everything By a necessary alarm. That is something too.

This year has been A puzzle for us But I think we're finding The missing pieces, no— We've made them— Like all the rest but now Our hands aren't shaking.

If I could choose A color To possess me, It would have to be Mustard yellow; Bright and carefree, Like a smile that can't Be wiped away— A shine; identical to The heart of a bonfire With its embers Always welcome In my nature.

Poor crickets. They can't escape And they'll never Know grass. They'll know Only the pull Of a chameleon's Tongue And the crunch Of themselves.

Trees are watchful giants Under a black sky With limbs reaching to Comfort nightly travelers But instead, they spark A wary eye With a ghostly rustle.

We made coffee at home When we got out of bed. Breakfast wasn't rushed. Time for breakfast isn't Something we always have. A little bit of Grocery shopping got done And work came later— It went well. You had rice with lentils for dinner. I had biscuits and tea. I wasn't feeling that hungry.

One of my cats won't let me work, He only wants to play. I can't say no and disappoint him! At least his brother is asleep. With him, I can take my time But the one who wants to cuddle And climb? Well— I guess another break won't hurt.