Eliza Daley ~ Wordcraft & Musing on Home & Hope
I'm still absorbed in nesting... and nursing my abused hands... because rheumatoid arthritis does not do curtain hardware in rock maple without intense retribution. So here is a bit of poetry... of sorts. free from words solitary is alone. alone is one. solitary is one. but one is not necessarily solitary. i often wish i… Continue reading Poetry
It might have gone this way. If we'd not burned up all the leftover dinosaurs and tree ferns, it might be about time for this inter-glacial period to end. Imagine climate change without fossil fuels. It began with a few cold summers. The early ones were written off to variously benign causes. Volcanic eruptions. Changing… Continue reading Collision: The Alternative
I am not going. Get that through your stubborn head! Deirdre closed the door — gently — turned her back to it and slid to the floor. She wished, not for the first time, that just once she’d have the pluck to speak her mind. Just once she’d like to not feel like a timid… Continue reading Collision: Some Are Chosen
This particular passage is why I decided to air out this WIP this particular week. Fintan stood on the front steps and drew a deep breath before going into his house. The mail carrier drove up behind him and dumped a pile of catalogs in their box. Now Fintan knew time was wonky. The mail… Continue reading Collision: On Home
This is from a work in progress. I feel like it's a good time to air it out a bit. The cave is always a place where worlds collided, a seam between This and Other. This cave was forged in collision — continents crashing together, volcanic spasms spewing molten rock, mountains thrust to the cold… Continue reading Collision: Prologue
I ran into Annie today at the grocery store. Annie’s son is in the second grade with my daughter, so I know Annie superficially. I greeted her over our shopping carts. Both carts — mine with a manifest desire to go left and avoid Annie altogether — were loaded with milk, lunch meats, sliced bread… Continue reading A Mother’s Secret
She rose in the chill hour before dawn. Over the western horizon the moon, now almost full, cast long shadows in the grasses, limning the early morning in silver. Behind the camp, the green glow of the approaching sun capped the cold mountains. Looming malevolently in the moonlight, the snowy heights seemed to taunt and… Continue reading Duty Before Dawn
She went to the well every morning. She, and every other girl in the village. Every morning to the well to gather the water necessary for washing, cooking, drinking, brewing — all of which she would also do. Every day. Every morning she went to the well in the village common. But not this morning. … Continue reading The Well
the hawthorn queen she waxes full in fertile grace queen of quick and fay, she reigns in mantle green and seemly face quelling fear and mortal pains eternal mother, ever maid undying wisdom in her glance deathless wierd is on her laid to spin th' unceasing wheel of chance again, she comes in crown of… Continue reading May Day
A few romantic poems for Floralia. Well, sort of romantic at any rate.
By My Solitary Hearth 