All that is uncared for.

Left alone in the stillness

in that pure silence married

to the stillness of nature.

A door off its hinges,

shade and shadows in an empty room.

Leaks for light. Raw where

the tin roof rusted through.

The rustle of weeds in their

different kinds of air in the mornings,

year after year.

A pecan tree, and the house

made out of mud bricks. Accurate

and unexpected beauty, rattling

and singing. If not to the sun,

then to nothing and to no one.

–by Linda Gregg

Spending The Morning Alone


This morning someone spoke my name.

Sometimes I have trouble waking

I fall back to sleep

deep into dreaming

the weight of the voice shook me up, teeming

with a power

I have never known

I opened my eyes  to realize that


was alone

and so it goes

whenever I’m lost in a vortex that is the bed

a voice speaks inside my head

if I’m too heavy

it rolls me into the covers tightly

pushes the pillows over ever so slightly

& shoves the alarm right under my ear

just near enough to deafen

On occasion I’ll come face to face with a face

precariously perched on the wooden chair

from my dresser

eyes intent and steady

watching me breath, I guess

until I am startled into wakefulness

& scan the room

looking for the missing soul

that rippled my sleep

only to see once again

that I am alone

the sole person

in this home.



Spoiled sick by your curdled fingers

your memory lingers

like milk slipping off the back of my mind

like kids and swings in the summertime

Hold fast, your eyes are far away

Listen close, the sounds darkness makes

When the sun slurps sleep from my cheeks

your eyes and mine meet


like chocolate red ribbons beckon

pupils open wide to drink your presence

then escape

as day breaks knuckles on night’s secrets.