Andi Leigh Writes

This morning there was peace; Welcomed and accepted— Unheard of For a long while, but I'm glad it finally visited me. I hope to welcome it home More often—maybe it'll even Stay.

Bury me In the gleam of your smile. Take my breath When you wake me. Shout at the world When my voice is stifled. I'll return the favor.

The downpour kept us sane— It wasn't easy with the cold But we managed to keep warm While we watched the Rolling storm drench the Thankful outdoors.

My heart is beating steadily— Not profusely thumping or Battering my ribcage, Or sending shakes through My body and boiling my thoughts And my blood together— What it had been doing for several Weeks now—I might be me again. I want to be me again.

A fish rushes straight up And never breaks the surface, Terrified a second later Of what could've been If the tension Was so easily disrupted. So the fish swims back down To the comfort Of the plastic decoratives That will never be as real As the experience Above its glass ceiling.

Sometimes Bridges are crossed, And after, They break into despair When you flicker Into unpredictable plains, But you need To open your heart To the immense potential That wasn't present In the entangled groves That paused you From crossing the bridge In the first place. Now, there is room for you In the vast unknown.

It's been raining lately And maybe that's why I've Been feeling down. There's chamomile cooped Up in the cupboard— Maybe I should let That small amount of Early summer Brighten the gloom.

Steady rivers can cleanly rush but Droughts will run the smiles dry And when the dark clouds Pour rain to dampen the dust, Benefits can be easily overlooked.

My stomach churns With every Spiral That sends my thoughts Deep down And the Rummaging ache Shoots those Loudly wordless voids Back to my tilted center Which doesn't want The jolts anymore.

A blue daffodil takes center stage In a theater where no one's paid. The tickets burn while in hand, No one will see the show again.

Dishes lightly clank During polite conversation As they are set on wiped Down cafe tables. Can I be as centered as the Arranged florals That live as focal points Between the faint kitchen talk And the hissing steam wand From the espresso machine? At least the aroma is good For the sluggish soul, grasping That they are no longer in bed But with the rowdy rest In need of a pick-me-up before Facing the chaotic schedule That waits ahead.

When there is nothing, It cannot remain that way. Intrusive thoughts burst Out from under the rocks They fester under—ruining The peaceful nothing That never gets to last.

There is horror in a house Without any doors, Or without windows to let Purpose inside, There are No cracks to leak out of. It is a box that is a weight— With little to show The neighbors—no visitors are Allowed. There are no entrances, No exits, But walls can always be Smashed in from either side.

There is something About Sundays. Mornings last longer— Giving us space to finish Tasks before the sun Reaches the sky's center. We didn't have much To do—so we gladly didn't.

We always skip breakfast; Moving right into the afternoon With impatient stomachs That would be restful if only We had more hours after waking To attend to them. So instead, they turn on us By twelve And we may not notice how We respond to voices Or any little sound or movement That lingers in the corner Of our irritated eye, Up until we realize that there Is a beast That requires a simple fix.

In the moment We are in eternity. I wonder when the light Will touch our faces, Granting the calm We were promised as Children. For now, we are in The same old place— For now, we are the same With changes That matter only a little.

There is a checker piece Lost on a chessboard, Playing a game it'll Never properly win, But it refuses to concede With confidence That it'll remain there Amongst the kings that Pertain to the goings-on Of the board.

Have I been given an olive branch Or is it a curse with hidden intentions— Dressed to imitate a helping hand. If the insight of seeing through the Ruse is sparking this early, Maybe I should run ahead while I can.

There are only a handful of days Left on the walled calendar And while we want to accomplish So much more, next year Will have to do And that isn't something that needs To deter us— We aren't meant to spread ourselves Thin; expecting to rise out Of the pressure we're buried under. The hourglass will let us know when We need to flip the impending sands. Let's gradually cross things out Before it's time to flip once again.

Meet me in the morning And in the late afternoon. There are things we can Talk about; I'll share some With you soon. How was your day? What did you do to get On by? Meet me with your stories; I'll listen to your reply.

One day Rewriting yourself Will feel like Less Of a block And starting lines Will unsnarl, Allowing the pen To flow freely Along any Paper chosen.

We are a tenacious wave That drowns hate And floats consideration To the surface Of an ocean that bleeds.

How can I soon bloom When a languid cloud roots In my sleepy head? I should get some rest And when the novel daylight Wakes, I may be ready To bloom beyond what I am.

Sometimes I can Be a stone That does not move, One that does not roll, Or one that does not crack— A stone that is still Without transformation, A stone that wants to see The moving world After gaining the ability To stand up.

I'm dragging my spine behind me. Seeing enough and waking Up early—that'll fix my energies To the floor. By three in the afternoon, There are more rocks beneath My shoes that I'd wish to kick off But I can't risk blisters. There are enough on my skin And more things trailing behind That I can't yet pick up. When I do pick at the pieces dragged, I throw them back on; waiting For them to shed into items to be Recollected—as they seem To always do when I think I've handled them well.

We can skip into Our new lives When we want to— When we're ready. As long as our New endeavors Involve each other, There's nothing more To mind.

We'll come home And play card games While the sun Shuffles along the Horizon. It doesn't matter who Wins—we both do.

I'd like to establish roots And see that stability Is as attainable As an herb garden in spring. Though I know we have Winter to shovel through— I hope my starters Won't mind the cold.

I'll sweep the dirt Off of you— Make sure you Get me too! We'll use it to plant Ideas Instead of suffocating Under the weight That can be shaken, But that's why We have each other— To dig one another Out of dust Before it becomes A pile.

We are troubled like the wind During November rain; Unaware of which direction To take, Blinded by the tears cried By the clouds we cut through. There's always next year But there's also now With plenty of room to rest On bare branches.