Like Holding a Plume of Smoke

 This piece came from a prompt taken out of Barbara Kingsolver's “The Bean Trees.” 

        But what if you can’t find them?


They were here somewhere. Words whispered inside my dream. Brushing my face, a breeze warming my skin, a tickle as hairs blew wispy across my neck. Resting against the leafy maple’s trunk, eyes closed, words had arrived, breathed in with the scent of blooming lilacs. Unnoticed for one breath; snapping synapses alert with the next. 

Eyes open. Searching. Worrying the words had wafted away into sky blue vastness overhead. 

Seeking. Almost frantic. Feeling the words slide further away the harder I searched. Like holding a plume of smoke in my hands. Impossible. 

        What if I couldn’t find them?

A choice made. Deciding to be only in the moment. I settled again, closing my eyes, breathing in, opening myself to the floating words. Inviting them to return, acknowledging their right to say no.   If not today, then perhaps tomorrow or the next. 

They would make their way back to me, possibly bringing friends. They would find me, eager and ready for what they offered.



                                                             







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