The pulp sticky on your fingers

 

The pulp sticky on your fingers

Sometimes your hope 

Is a yellow blanket

Flung haphazard on the couch

Sometimes it is 

The child tripping on the 

Way up the steps

Splitting his lip on the ledge

And looking back with a 

Shaky smile and teary eyes

Other times your hope

Is a room full of 

Voices talking over each other,

In the familiar way

That only breeds affection

It is the breaking 

Of the yolk running down

Over the sides

It is the beetle burning

In the flame on the log

Just trying to return home

It is the split orange

Perfectly portioned for me and you,

A feast prepared in anticipation,

The pulp sticky on your fingers

– olivia gwyn

A tumbling run

 

A tumbling run (or redemption)

It’s like the sun on the pavement after rain

It’s a good tumbling run down a big hill

It’s the chickadees making a dinner party of the crumbs that fell to the ground

It’s like laughing after a good cry

It’s the warm bread and butter with the jam you thought you'd ruined

It’s when He comes like the sun

After millennia of dark

Like relief

Like water in a parched land

Like laying your head on your moms shoulder

Like climbing into a freshly made bed knowing tomorrow will be perfect

It feels like You

                                        — olivia gwyn

Everything is butter yellow

 

Everything is butter yellow 

Everything is butter yellow 

In the evening light 

On the cusp of fall

Summer still writing love notes 

Across the earth 

In its best handwriting

The darkness taking the landscape,
Changing it with 
Each large, easy stride

I try to follow as fast as I can 
To take it all in, but it doesn't 
Wait for me

It never does
I am trying to learn
To walk slowly anyway

— olivia gwyn