Thunder resounds like a distant trumpet.
Trees droop burdened with wet leaves.
Branches limp like weary willows
Lawns a velvet emerald green.
A moment hangs in heavy silence
Then the rain begins to fall,
Suddenly and forcefully like waves
Of audience applause.
Red and Blue, balanced in space and time,
Identities all their own. That which is
Red can never be Blue, two edges
On a continuum of light, each dark,
Each bright, balanced on a fulcrum.
Balance is a precarious, breathless moment.
Wait … wait … then time comes pushing through.
What once was can never be again, and
To be is to become what is not now.
The metamorphosis of existence.
Red and Blue, merging in space and time.
Identities integrating to become something
Different from themselves. Lighter,
Brighter, energy of motion transformed
To the core of existence. Yellow.
I joined Writers Bloc, a group of writers from Monmouth County, NJ, whose styles are as diverse as their backgrounds and interests. Here are some of my writings from our meetings.