If I blur the lines,

I lose the parameters:

success or failure

truth or fiction.

Would that inability to see clearly make a kinder, gentler me?

Would I approach life with more care and curiosity,

not knowing what is before me?

In a sense, it is already true.

I see the road ahead and know its curves by heart, but what of

the eagle soaring, a friend coming to call, a poem out of the blue:

God’s hand, plain and true.

Blur the lines.

Know not what you see

Until it unfolds

In its own time.

Colleen Sohn

Dark as winter, yet bright.

Lit from within.

Dancing on a feather, floating.

Soft, without edges.

No concern for space, nor sun, nor rain.

Warm,

Green grass beckons,

Eager and inviting.

Become wet with dew,

and stay.

Colleen Sohn

For some reason

I had a compulsion,

From my little prison,

To write some fiction

Using the diction

of Adam Sandler’s Cajun minion.

What a desecration

Of words held so often in jubilation!

Yet, I wait in anticipation

For the next line in my creation.

Without great satisfaction,

For I have lost traction,

And now have to cease without proper action.

The End

Colleen Sohn