Between Bruises and Blooms
-
Bleached bone beneath prairie sun becomes a reminder that some forms of beauty survive even after the body is gone.
-
Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
-
Justice may still be face down in the deck, but hope needs somewhere to rest while court dates keep living in the body.
-
At 4:20 a.m., an old smoke ritual lingers as memory while the sleeping house and a tired mother move toward morning.
-
Sick or not, motherhood still wakes with bottles, dishes, dogs, medicine, and the quiet strength of doing the next thing.
-
At 3:33, cold coffee, a staring cat, and a candle with no breeze make inspiration feel suspiciously close to haunting.
-
At three in the morning, the world goes quiet enough for old houses, moonlight, and sleepless women to remember each other’s names.
-
The work may not come with a paycheck, but every poem and page is building something real one sentence at a time.
-
Some days the poems wait while bottles, laundry, little hands, and ordinary motherhood take the whole page.
Between Bruises & Blooms 