It feels like a CHEAT 
We had hoped for a MOVER, a dancer
A future BRIDE, 
Instead we can hear a DIRGE playing 
From up on the RIDGE
We are the cheated
The forlorn
The lost

Georg’ann

I don’t want to WASTE a moment,
yet sense that striving can
itself become a form of waste.
Lying on my back, eyes closed,
listening
to the CRONE weave her stories.
An afternoon passes.
Her voice fills the room
like warm cocoa scented air.
Here it’s easy to PURGE
my mind of intrusions,
her words lulling me
to a type of lucid dream.
Transported from the room,
I lie on a sunny RIDGE,
a large, smooth rock
gathering heat.

Heather