Katrina Kaye

A collection of moments:

Fireflies twinkle again mountain side
near a river in North Carolina.

The heat got to me, leaving me sick
and dizzy after only two hours on the road.

Rain falling on the windshield blurring the
view of the highway. A moment of panic.

Falling asleep in a ray of sunshine that
sneaks through dingy window.

Coffee stains on white shirts, forgotten names
of relatives, pink lipstick on front teeth.

The time on the California Highway when the fog
handicapped my eyes with a sheet of white.

I thought it was the end until I saw the brake
lights pierce the mist.

Do the clouds have so much power
they can make a lazy mind time travel

to a place of yellow and orange and gold
where the sun is not kept from my skin?

A hastily written confession in
the form of a letter, never acknowledged.

Music in the morning air from a bird
who sits upon wires singing songs of gratitude.

Have I done enough to be awarded
a simple life?

“Collection” is previously published in Verse Vital (2023).