3WW: Bloody, Kinky, Tender

There is only one
little smear
of morning sunlight
left on my kitchen floor.  

I woke up too late
to enjoy a couple hours
of solitude.

He's already making
awake noises
so this will have to be
a quick poem.  

Too bad I can't think
of anything
to write about.  

No bloody emotions
lately. No kinky past-
times to secretly enjoy.
My days have been

unusually soft and tender
like a mound  
of bread dough

we've been kneading
and kneading and, finally,
it can rest and rise. And I think
he's even fallen back to sleep.

One Single Impression: Shells

Shells

She's wearing
her Hello Kitty
bathing suit
today. We walk
along the beach
at Cayo Costa
State Park
in Florida.
We are looking
for butterfly shells.

That's what Kylie
calls them. When
they are open,
they look like they
could fly away.
Her favorites
are pure white
like angel wings.
Mine are the ones
that look like sunrises.

She finds a half one
and picks it up
to discover
it's still alive.
She helps it
back to the water.
"If the shell is empty,
does that mean
it's dead?" she asks.
"I'm afraid so."

She's quiet for a moment.
"My dad took a bunch
of pills and I
couldn't wake him up."
We walk hand-in-hand
for a minute. "You
we're so smart
to call your mom
and get help for him."
I squeeze her hand.

She bends down
to pick up another shell.
This one is pale pink.
She examines it
for life and finds
it pulsing.
In the water it goes.
"Let's just look
for live ones
from now on."

Sunday Scribblings: Reflect

Reflect

Two bicycles
and a palm tree
are upside down,

reflected
in the mirror
of our canal.

I'd rather be on
one of those bikes
pedaling to the beach

but, all I can do
is capture
the freedom

(of wind slipping
through my curls
and filling

my cheeks
with its laughter,
of my feet

running
through the air,
of escaping)

in the lens
of this poem.
Click.