Blank Verse Prose

26 09 2007

My sister sat there on the water’s edge, her toes stroking it over the dock. It was almost dusk and the sun was making its way down. The crickets create the percussion of the music outdoors, the sounds of rocking, chirping back and forth.  The fireflies add illuminate the scene. She sits there as thick air wraps around her. She stares towards the falling sun with its beautifully aligned colors of red, yellow, and orange. Like a painting on a fresh canvas it caresses the sky. She falls into a trance, into another place. A campfire in front of her with its screeching sounds. She envisions him, every aspect, his smell, his touch, his perfectly tanned body. He was hers, for a short time, but at least she had him at all. They were perfect for each other, inseparable. The memories she has are playing silently through her mind. He left just a few days ago, so stereotypically and cliché. The usual college transition summer. It wasn’t fair to her, the memories of the boats gliding on the water, and sitting on Uncle John’s rusty dock holding each other.  It was as if she was caught in his hazel, and comforting eyes. She was stuck in a moment of euphoria and didn’t want to let go; nothing went wrong when he was around.  A gust of cold wind crawled along her back; her feet hit the water as she flinched.  She stood up and bit by bit pried herself away from the dock. As she was walking she glanced back towards the water. She watched as each little ripple, each line faded into nothing. She realized now it was time to let it all go.


blank verse…revised

23 09 2007

She sits there on the water’s bank, her toes

caressing  it calmly through the smoothness.

The tiny crickets strike double drums hard.

She sits there, thick sky blankets her around

as dusk pulls her into a trance with its

canvas of pottery red and pale orange.

A Fire, its screeching sounds, she pictures

A man, every aspect: his smell, and touch,

Perfect, complete; they are together, built

for each other and inseparable, but

then He left, clichéd She thought. It wasn’t

fair to her, She was left, memories strike

of cigarette boats gliding over it,

antique, and brittle dock, the right support,

 just holding Him. Relaxed and carefree, it

is difficult with His calm, entrancing hazel eyes.

A  breath of wind stings sharp along her back,

the feet break mirror image, stands up right,

pries herself away, she glances back

as each minute ripple disappears.