Naps

Naps are for the very young, then we forget
or scorn naps for years. We think of those who nap
as old when we are 8 or 10 or 20, still wet
behind the ears. Once we climb down from the laps
of those who try to teach us about the whirled
and we’ve mastered running free, we fight the time for bed.
My son would cry right before the pearled
evening would close his eyes, fighting sleep with dread.
He might miss a fun filled happening. We run
fast and learn until we reach an age or illness where we tire
and fall asleep in day on a couch in spite of sun.
Wake climbing out of sleep like from the ocean or swampy mire. Our children now make fun of us, they fill the gaps,
as we have reached the age where we once again need naps.

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I took the photograph from a train in 2017, going from Edmonds, Washington, to Chicago.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: nap.

Control

If control is the goal
this is not love.
If I listen to others
yet don’t share myself,
this is not love.
If you hoard information about others,
this is not love.
If I reject people I can’t control,
this is not love.

If you have to be the smartest,
this is not love.
If I have to know the most,
this is not love.
If you keep everything secret,
this is not love.
If I share nothing with others,
this is not love.

Is it fear that keeps me from loving?
Is it anger that keeps you from loving?
Is it hate that keeps me from loving?
What keeps us from loving?

Float

The flowers float like gold petillant bubbles in the woods, their crackling too soft for my human ears.

I think this is a berry, but I’m not sure. It is on an old farm in Quilcene, gone wild. There is a cherry tree and four rhododendrons, an old chicken coop and an apple tree. Salmonberries and this. What is it?

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: petillant.