I restarted this blog to improve my writing and to share with others. No doubt some of the posts I will look back and roll my eyes, knowing full well the junk on the page should have been deleted long ago. But that's okay. If there's anything I've learned at the Loft Master Class, it is that writing is a craft, one that is honed and practiced. "Art," as Picasso said, "is much more destruction than construction."
This piece for Flash Fiction Friday is more poetry than fiction. My writing partner, Vanessa, told me that she wrote a poem for me for our final presentation. I felt the need to reciprocate. Here's what I came up with:
I saw a crocus on the prairie, just the other day.
Lovely, fragile, she stood weakly in May.
How did she know that it was time to bloom?
That, given a chance, she’d leave her tomb?
Hidden deeply, fairies and dryads whispered, enticed.
And her soft petals wove gently, through snow and ice.
Not fragrant or showy, but beautiful, despite.
She opened her arms, light purple and slight.
Little crocus alone, your time here is brief.
Surely you know this, there’s brown on your leaf.
Summer’s heat is nigh; the snow melts away.
Grass will stand high, it will be a new day.
Will we remember rebirth, the spring and the sun?
Or will we forget, little crocus, the gift we have won?
The grass, how it withers and flowers they fade.
But the gift of spring blossoms, my how they save.