A Week of the Irish

-
Small Breaths

by Eileen Carney Hulme


No matter that my heart sinks,
sighs, with the weight of skeletons-

paths I forgot to follow
have slowly sealed

rooms go unrecognised
for fear of change

and I cry at the uncertainty of rainbows.

All the daydreams I stole,
refusing to give them back

are stored as silver dust
and each day is a small breath.

Comments

  1. GailMarch 14, 2010 at 2:54 PM

    These words have touched my heart.

    They sing my mood today, Thank you.

    ReplyDelete
  2. SharonMarch 14, 2010 at 3:06 PM

    Ah the melancholy of the Irish. 'Tis our curse and our blessing.

    ReplyDelete
  3. OwenMarch 14, 2010 at 6:59 PM

    Silver dust indeed...

    May one ask where the photo is from ? It is truly lovely...

    ReplyDelete
  4. aimsMarch 14, 2010 at 7:04 PM

    We are so distracted with life and so much in a hurry that we let it all get away from us before we come to the end and finally notice.

    ReplyDelete
  5. dsMarch 14, 2010 at 7:25 PM

    So beautiful. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete

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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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