Little Blue Book
by ruth s.l. dale
I love you for that little thing you left behind for me, because you had to leave, Wishing you could have given it yourself That little blue book is helping me to grieve; A grandfather is not supposed to father Yet you were to me what he never was, You gave me away, loved me like no other. I cried for you, long nights, because, because The blue, the color of the sky you sailed The paper, handmade, reminds me of your travels My tongue has tied in knots, my heart has wailed, Death stands accused of making me unravel. Still sealed and stowed among my many rows How much grief will my little blue book hold?
Fairytale
by ruth s.l. dale
The days and years are steadily rolling by and I wave as they pass quietly. A new house, finally a home to belong, the smell of fresh paint dances through the humidity; we are young and came from nothing. Our children will never go through how we struggled, the bitter chill of fights left to fester in guarded hearts will not occur in our warm embrace, but we know no home is perfect. Everyone thought I was crazy to marry at eighteen but love burns brightest in the face of adversity yet also understanding. True love is not a fairytale, to me, but a man who comes home to cuddle on the couch while we share dreams of our future, even our fears; a warm spot in soft sheets, bubbling laughter after hot tears, we are on to a new chapter, a clean page, a fresh beginning. He is mine and I am his, until the end of forever in which ours will be the fairytale told at bedtime.
Dreaming
by ruth s.l. dale
Stars wink at me in the night sky, as clouds pass like feathers from a bird that just exploded in the distance. I see worlds upon worlds in that sky while I sleep, yet awake it is nothing but an occupied desert, busy, lonely, full yet empty. Sometimes I am in a field of dead grass, the battlefield of my nightmares, and other times there are wildflowers or rows of lavender spilling their perfume in my hair like Life giving water to a tree. The nor’easter’s come rarely, but roll through to the sound of a thousand drums and I am reborn after drowning under the anchor of depression. Now there are chubby legs joining me, running through golden wheat and carrying the Sun on her back, her laughter echoes in the church bells on Sundays. I don’t know her yet, her face dissipates like smoke the moment I wake but I will know her one day when she walks from my head to my belly and into my arms.
Ashes to Apples
by ruth s.l. dale
When both their lives ended, Returned to dust, sowed together Under a pair of apple trees, Those that ate their fruit Contemplated the journey Of life and marriage. She was a strong, howling wind, Anger like a whip, words the crack, Foreshadowing a storm. He was an oak, hosting the Spirit of a hummingbird, Yet forces of nature grow. Her steady downpour Only deepened the roots In their hearts, His unrelenting light-heart Parted the clouds In their spirits; Undergrowth carved bedrock, Warmth sprouted flowers; A forest developed Before their tear-stained, Love-dripping eyes So they retired happily Dust to forever, Ashes to apples.
Ruth Dale Writes 