These tears are free.
Faces in the atmosphere smile and frown,
never judgmental, even when I’m troubled.
Here I am, cardigan draped over shoulders,
woolen arms wrapped around me,
warming my heart.
There’s pressure to write on this mournful day,
words straining,
so hard to rhyme.
The conversation with the clouds
seems one-sided and yet I hear
and somehow understand.
Strange—
one second ago this thought didn’t exist,
and now I’m weeping:
I know death never comes
from too much love.
To help you’ve got to love;
without love,
they won’t forgive the bread you gave.
Lying here in the shade imagining that
the one I love lies here next to me
softly breathing.
Reading your letter
I tumble into depression,
empty, aching.
Your sentences are too short
for the distance between us.
I’ve found a certain harmony
exists in loneliness.
Sitting in the rocker on the stoop
I hum a sad tune,
tears slowly drying in the sun.
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 309/365.
Desert Dweller 