Intermission

The light sparkles rainbows off the light framed chime,
dancing its geometric twirl in the rain fractured afternoon sun.

White confetti cherry blossom petals scatter like tiny paper birds
across the mossy grass, toys in the wind's large, playful grasp.

A faint melancholy plays on my breath, a fluted tune from my life's fleeting song.
I see around me the stage that is set out, well known and comfortable most days.
But a shadow lingers from time to time, shyly hiding behind the curtains at intermission time.

It is a quiet time, with murmurs in hesitant pauses, that taunt and tease,
awakening a sorrow deeply buried, of things lost long ago, in a far away land,
across an ocean, in a place that was my home.

A wound with blood that never dries, I stand alone at intermissions such as these,
on quiet days with no updated script, no sympathy form the audience's empty chairs.

I stand still, waiting for the feeling to pass, to let go of this numbing doubt as to why
the stage runs empty some days, hypnotizes my resilient heart and soul with its ghostly
sneers and howls, go ahead, try, try, there you go, good show, good show.

Then like a spell dismissed at a wizard's capricious whim, the wound's old sting subsides.
I push the curtains aside, and face the thin, distracted crowd, as I say once more well rehearsed lines.

Intermission time has passed once more, the chime's light, sweet song brings a faint smile
as I walk across the stage where birds wait respectfully for my cue, alongside bees and willing flowers.

The ocean in my backyard, I am home, a stranger only in name, when the happy days
make me forget the script quietly tucked into the seam of my slumbering hesitations and fears.


Trudi Ralston.
April 30th, 2017.