Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, The Screech Owl, Soul Fountain, Ydgrasil, and Black Magnolias Journal.
Amidst the whispers of the night,
all alone, the mournful moon wept
upon the deepened world of dreams.
The woodland tears quivered
with circles of colorful leaves,
dances of indigo nocturne imprint into dirt.
In wheat fields of golden grain,
when summer days grew longer,
we used to play along the brook as children.
Peppermint leaves we used to eat
grew beneath lilies, sunflowers, rosebuds,
as the grand willow tree breathed shadows.
Silent midnight within spirits of cottonwood
wore tortured hours of heavy raindrops.
Moments passed in the love of death.
ONE SUMMER DAY
She whistles for her dogs.
To her kitchen to warm the kettle.
To her dresser
on the wall opposite her bed
opposite the window, beside the door
as it opened she felt its grain,
when she lifted & dropped the pineapple wallpaper,
when she traced her pillow’s lime-green palm
trees painted on the drawer fronts,
how the dogs whined & sighed.
Wool socks under the dresser,
she waits on the kettle’s low whistle.
She nods in the morning’s thick blue with
rising pedestrian dome of clouds.
Quiet but for the finches,
elm & fence-line, crosswalk & lawn
Below the children on streets
taunt the doves in the evening by morning
tease the grass: rip with the toe, pull with the heel.
Boredom. And the birds.
She settles back into her knitted-back chair.
The worn place frays, softly weeps.