Credit: Chelsea Newman
Poetry & Prose


There was sand that led up to brown doors at midnight

And pearls that glistened softly far away.


There were orchids, blue ones—hungry orchids sleeping

And watching dawn get up under moist wreaths of dreams.


Shadows pulled close and stepped around. Cornfields skittered across waters of red,

And meadows of tiny blues with big greens filled the wet days.


Orchids surrounded by cicadas, beating their bodies and whipping their wings along—

The rows of identical shacks lined with black string filled the fields of orchids.


Almost forgot of places hid behind memory and loss tucked behind,

And treasures held close by shadow arms and subtle pricks.


Anything could happen when fireflies line up against windowsills

And pretend to be innocent. Anything could happen.


And wistful mornings will never lose interest in frigid nights,

Because keeping each other warm is easier together than alone.


Coffee lain on lips of slumber tussle between dusk driven nights,

And fallen leaves leave trees bare like untouched white winter snow.


Eyes squint as rays peak over the orchids bundled on the corner

Table and chimneys tumble in and curse out with smoke.


Loneliness picked up an orchid

And placed it in your hands.

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