Amy Souza

Dead of winter
By Amy Souza
Inspired by Lené Gary’s art

when neighbors
complain of
the cold
I join in
to fit in

not wanting
to admit
that I like
how my body
defrosts
upon stepping
inside after
a long walk

the tingle
as my fingers
warm

even
the
runny
nose

an excuse
to go to
bed early
with a
book and
the weight
of too many
blankets

the usually aloof
dog nestled
close
all night long

.

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© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Four Mile Run
By Amy Souza

After the storm, the floodgates opened and poured out a brown murky rush. It flew down its usual path, bucking up against concrete banks, topped with detritus picked up along the way: mile after mile of cigarette butts and beer cans, takeout containers and Slurpee cups, mysterious paper objects and every so often a novelty—a baby’s rattle, a dog’s collar, what looked to be an artificial limb.

Bouncing along, this river of remnants assumed a life of its own. Viewed from above, taken in as a whole, the thing mesmerized with its contrasting colors and changing composition. The way it moved made it appear sentient.

One could accept it, too, as evidence of our existence. No animal but man could create such an artifact. One could feel proud, if one were so inclined.

.

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© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Even Bees Dream of Paris
By Amy Souza
Inspired by Sean Callahan’s art

Truth is plural, you said.
My truth, your truth, theirs.
All of us are right, but none of us wholly so.

Just for today, I will release the struggle.
Sit on the dock. Feel the sun on my arms, the tops of my feet.
The rough wood below locks me in place.

My soul needs rest,
even as its fancies buzz and swirl toward their passions,
their calls from God.

I will sit, drink in the day, feel the stretch along my spine,
acknowledge the body for where it’s taken me, what it allows.
Each breath enters deeply, departs slowly.

Salt air on my tongue.

My purpose need be nothing more than this:  silent thanks for what is.

.

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© 2012 Amy Souza. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.