… the sound of crickets chirping on calm summer nights…
I’m so in love with the Idea of romantic love
The practical matter sailed a bit
and then sank with the sunset at the end of the day.
Mourning for the disconnected Ideal
Peace comes behind closed eyelids swollen with tears.
Where is he? I’ve sought him my whole life. Maybe my heart will be ready to receive him one day, I wait patiently for gentle healing.
This love is coming from me, he was the vessel for it… He’s gone, but Love is not.
She looked at him and saw his profile, which was in shadows, back-lit by the car window with an arctic tundra in the south-western desert in background, blowing snow, and the sun. He looked solemnly straight ahead at the road.
She gazed at him with fondness. She loved it when he reached out for her hand and held it tight. It made her feel radiant. There was something between them from the beginning. She felt love. But too she felt a wall, or something that was there, invisible, almost impenetrable.
This love is coming from me, she said to herself in her mind. He is the vessel for it…
He was much more than that. This man who showed her his love was much more complex than sweet letters and sweet words. He was a living, breathing, thinking, feeling man. He just didn’t talk very much. From behind the wall he showed her something she hadn’t seen about herself. He showed her how much she was invigorated by his affection, how much thirsted for it, how desolate she was when she thought she perceived it’s absence.
Every day
I’m getting what I need
I’m getting love.
I like it.
It makes me want to give.
Every day.
I love.
I fear.
I love.
I love.
Every day
I’m relaxing into this
and suddenly I find
That I have no more fear!
I like it when he makes it this easy
Out of places least expected comes admiration
It’s time to do things differently than I’ve ever done them before.
I accept! I accept.
I’m tough as nails
I’m so very fragile
The doors are locked
Let’s climb in through a window
Let’s put down philosophy for a while
And talk about dreams and cartoons.
Let’s kick off our shoes together
And swim near the sandbar.
Your eyes stare into my face
I cast my gaze downward
But today, I think that I’ll stay.
Come on
Move your chair over to the fire pit with me
Take off your socks and shoes
It’s still Indian summer
In the night of these cloudy warm sunny days
I’ll loan you my jacket if you’re chilly, baby
And let’s burn some dead wood.
The leaves are dying beautifully
The flowers are drying gracefully
They make lively yellow flames
Newspaper sparks up and quickly alights
And soon fire laps at the logs in the hole
Rich black coal for our compost
Let it burn, baby, let it burn.
Crickets chirp and the moon is pregnant overhead
New, raw, firey energy
Like a lover to be had.
Let’s burn some of this dead wood, baby
It spittles and crackles and smokes
It heaves in conversation
Shifting open off to the sides
Lay low, sweet fire fairy
Let me take you home
I’ll feed the fire
You relax and have a drink
And 38th avenue will sing you a tune
To the rhythm of the crickets baby
And the spittle-crack of the fire.
The train whistle punctuates the silence
And this tune, baby, this tune’s for you.
I’ll sweep leaves into the fire
And the fire burns loud
A neighbor’s dog barks alittle
And then we’re back to the chirping crickets, baby
The fire, 38th, and you.
Now let’s burn a branch
Thrown down by the wind
Burn all those bean-pods on that branch and the leaves
And it’ll burst aflame so loud
And smell like vanilla
You know those pretty white flowers
Blooming big on that tree in the spring.
Then we’ll burn those tree poles
We’ll feed them in slowly
Pushing ‘em way down deep in the coals
The coals glowing red-hot with the orchestra of crickets
Goodbye weed-trees
Fuel for the fire
The fire, never-ending and finite
Burn it,
Everything
Burn, sumacs
Burn, orchid tree
Burn, three-year-old wood pile, burn
Burn, baby, burn
Now let’s turn it and burn the other side.
The Other side is silent
The wind blows
Changing the energy completely
And then that breath is gone.
The breeze begins a conversation all its own
With the cricket orchestra
And the lapping of the fire
The chimes sound out front
There enters a new cricket voice
A piece of wood falls off the top of the fire
Wind rustles through the trees
Cat footsteps
Rustling of the leaves
* Dog barks, crickets chirp, girl stirs fire *
Harvest it all
Save the seeds
Fire crackles
Moisture spittles
Dry it burns nice
Reap what you sow
On this firey Harvest Moon…
Nina Lois is a graduate student at the University of Colorado at Denver obtaining a Master's Degree in Humanities with a B.A. in political science. Her passions are broad when it comes to the human condition. She is deeply interested in philosophy, psychology, environmental and social justice, peace studies, music, nutrition, tradition, and progress. 
Upon her imminent graduation, she wishes to contribute to the health, wealth, and happiness of the community through involvement, writing, and research. For goodness's sake, love the body, cultivate the mind and a garden, and feed the soul!
She can be contacted at nlturtledove[at]gmail[dot]com
Steam from the coffee
Permeated our nostrils
An oboe carried a raw melody
in through the open window -
Lace curtains waved in an afternoon breeze
Drawing attention away
From paintings dotting greying walls
to an unfocused point
suspended somewhere in the air
The perfect scene of a film,
My czech cousin and I agreed. Who is to recognize the voice of the calling?
Thanks again