She Burns

At her age she truly

Did appreciate

The calm stability

Of middle age

Of mature love

The security

The lack of drama

The quiet good life

Built on respect, history

Friendship, good meals

Intellect, companionship

But part of her still burned

Maybe it was her poet soul

Maybe it was her oppositional

Streak, deep and belligerent

Maybe it was the passing

Of the years themselves

Reminding her

That she would never

Be young and beautiful again

Never young and in love again

That reckless, greedy, heedless

Messy love that only the young

Seem to fall into

Some days she felt like the

Middle age suburban wife

And mother she was

A “Soccer mom with an attitude”

But other days she

Felt like there was a

Supernova in her chest

Threatening to break free

Her carefully restrained passion

Her deep hidden hungers

Could explode at any moment

Erupt like lava from her depths

Flowing onto the thick sheet of ice

Of staid, mature adulthood

The steam rising twenty feet, thirty

The liquid fire

Incinerating the

Winter dry trees

Scorching the air

Permanently altering the landscape


      1. The first time I read your work– and I don’t remember what piece it was– I thought, “This is how I’d write as a man.” Something tells me that we are equally intense and probably share an oppositional streak– not sure if that makes a good writing partnership. But, it probably wouldn’t be boring!

        Liked by 1 person

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