Take flight.

In this crisp, fall morning I was walking, bracing myself against the cold gusts of wind that hit my face like sharp pieces of glass. I witnessed something of familiarity, but it never struck me quite this way before. A small finch, golden like the colours of fall,, or crowns of a finest king, was struggling to take flight against the torrents of wind that surrounded it. It kept spinning in circles. Trying and trying to soar into sun-lit skies. It failed many times. Sometimes I feel that way. No matter how hard I try I never meet up to what I want or expect. I don't think to ever be perfect, that is an impossible goal for any of us. But sometimes I feel like that poor little finch. Wanting to take flight, but so much is holding me back, spinning me around and around and around, letting me go nowhere. "growing up" is hard. So many responsibilities. Commitments. Sometimes I feel as if I "bite off more than I can chew." Nevertheless, that little bird, beautiful, bold, cheerful--took off finally. The gust of wind that had been holding it back gave it a boost and it soared off into the heavens, singing, rejoicing. It made me think to use the things that are "holding me back" as stepping stones--footstools to push me to the limits and succeed. It made me think to take flight, hoping I don't crash.


.Daydreaming the Night Away.

She sat in the comfortable leather seat in a car of familiarity
Its silver paint, reflecting the moon of a cool autumn's evening
The stars lit up the sky, and she tried to count them while flailing her hands out the window, causing her fingers to go numb as the fast air hit them like pelting ice
She began to get cold, her skirt and tights not long nor thick enough to keep her warm
It didn't matter. The night left her feeling like a child again. For once she forgot her cares. For just a minute.
The static of the radio muffled her back to existence. 
And then she caught a glimpse of the plane soaring above her, its lights different from the stars--flickering.
She wished she was in it. Flying away.



My fathers hands are as familiar as my own.
They have strength.
Rough, rigid, and cracked edges.
Strain from working. Painted creases.
Yet they show love. 
There is tenderness when being held.
Those hands I used to massage during church services as a child.
Those hands that held me when I cried.
Those hands that spanked me when I needed punishment.
Those hands that fix my car.
These are the hands that dial the numbers to call me.
These are the hands of my earthly father I reach for.
These are the hands that I hold still.
These are the hands that have went through much.
That handed in money to pay for bills.
That put my family through everything.
These are my dad's hands. 
Strong, durable, hard-working, loving, kind.
A metaphor of my dad's life.
A life well lived.


hummingbird heartbeats 

wide eyes

anxious days


the grazing of elbows



I wish you had passion

I wish you knew.


colour me happy

Today I wanted colour.
I wanted art.
I wanted to paint a canvas.
I wanted to be creative.
I felt abstract.
Today I felt alive.


Lying in the golden, wheat field
Sunlight, cascading on my face of summer skin 
I am taken away, by the beauty of simplicity
The little things that make me flash a crooked smile
The sunset
Clinking rings on a warm, freshly ground cup of coffee
The sunset
All of these things, alluring with beauty
Captivated by each movement,
I find myself lost
In deep thought
I find myself seduced
I feel I am without freedom
I would like to change
Like the changing of seasons
Grass dying, perishing
The snow whitening the earth.
Glistening, like crystals,
Then melting into pools of clear liquid waves
New life, budding into radiant smells and colours
Back to the growing fields of summer that are then cut down.
Crunching leaves