“Little acorn, do not fear,
Your growing season soon is here.
Stretch your roots and reach up high—
One day you’ll tickle clouds nearby!”
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Nathan Ansell on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
Old wooden sweethearts stood out in the grass,
sharing one umbrella with weatherproof class.
He leaned a bit crooked, she stayed by his side,
both stiff as a board but beaming with pride.
If rain started falling, they wouldn’t complain—
they’ve probably been standing through decades of rain.
Simona A. Brinson
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
The heavens wept the tears I could not shed,
And every cloud recalled your fading name;
The storm drummed sorrow through my weary head,
Till every dawn and dusk became the same.
Each drop became a memory set free,
A whispered promise carried on the breeze;
The flooded earth reflected only me,
A lonely soul brought trembling to its knees.
Yet storms, though fierce, cannot command the sky,
Nor chain the sun behind their veil for long;
The darkest clouds must one day wander by,
And silence gives the waiting heart its song.
When rain at last released its mournful hold,
My heart found blooms where once it only cold.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Eric Soubeyrand de Saint Prix on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
Beneath the pines where moonbeams played,
A lonely wolf through twilight strayed.
His silver coat caught evening's glow,
As silent winds began to blow.
He wore no crown, he sought no fame,
Yet every forest knew his name.
With careful paws and amber eyes,
He watched the stars adorn the skies.
Upon an oak, both small and fair,
There perched a merry little sparrow there.
She chirped a tune so bright and sweet,
Like dancing raindrops' tiny feet.
"Good evening, Wolf," the sparrow sang.
Her cheerful voice through branches rang.
"Why walk alone with head so low?
Where do your lonely footsteps go?"
The wolf looked up with gentle grace,
A wistful smile upon his face.
"I roam the woods from dusk till dawn,
Yet every friend I've had is gone."
The sparrow fluffed her feathered wing.
"Then stay awhile and hear me sing.
A heart grows lighter, so I've found,
When joy and kindness pass around."
She sang of rivers, clear and bright,
Of fireflies that crowned the night.
She sang of blossoms kissed by dew,
And skies forever fresh and blue.
The wolf sat still beneath the tree,
As calm as any heart could be.
His heavy thoughts began to fly,
Like drifting clouds across the sky.
Together then they crossed the glen,
Though different far from beasts and men.
One leaped with strength, one danced with air,
Yet each discovered friendship there.
When winter came with frosty breath,
And branches slept in silent death,
The wolf would find the ripest seeds
And guard the sparrow as she feeds.
When spring returned with gentle rain,
She filled his lonely heart again.
Her songs became the morning's light,
That chased away the longest night.
The woodland creatures watched in awe
The bond that broke old nature's law.
For courage doesn't roar alone;
Sometimes it sings from branches grown.
The wolf grew wiser, calm, and kind.
The sparrow strengthened heart and mind.
Though one was mighty, one was small,
True friendship made them equal all.
So if your road feels cold and long,
Remember kindness, hope, and song.
For every soul, both bold and narrow,
May find a friend—a wolf, a sparrow.
And when the stars embrace the sky,
Their tale still whispers softly by:
That love is measured not by size,
But by the truth in caring eyes.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Danique Veldhuis on Unsplash.
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
Breedlove walks with pockets full
of rose-red seeds and cyclamen.
He plants them where the sidewalks crack,
then hums until the bees come back.
He sprinkles kindness by the gate,
leaves laughter where the lonely wait.
His hands smell sweet with garden rain,
with mint, warm soil, and sugarcane.
He tucks soft wishes under trees
and sends them sailing on the breeze.
By morning, every fence has grown
a vine that whispers, You’re not alone.
He paints the air with berry light,
hangs heart-shaped lanterns in the night.
Where anger once had scorched the ground,
pink blossoms rise without a sound.
And everywhere that Breedlove goes,
the whole world opens like a rose.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Igor Sporynin on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
I sit alone beneath the waking sky,
Yet, loneliness does not settle here.
The wind brings stories through the trees,
And sunlight rests warmly on my shoulders.
In solitude, my thoughts grow quiet,
Like clear water after rain.
I hear the steady rhythm of my heart
And remember that my own company is enough.
No crowd is needed for joy to bloom;
No voice must fill each sacred space.
I am not empty when I stand alone—
I am whole, peaceful, and free.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Pouya Hajiebrahimi on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
Fog tiptoes softly over the hill,
Draped in a gown of silver chill.
It tastes like dew on a sleepy tongue,
And hums where spiderwebs are strung.
It curls through trees with feather-light feet,
Cool as a ghost and faintly sweet.
The sun gives chase with fingers of gold,
And fog grows shy, no longer bold.
One warm breath, one brightening glow—
And off it skips where lost dreams go.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Dave Hoefler on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
How many times the hammer fell,
she could not name, she could not tell.
The nights had blurred to one long bruise,
a life of wounds she did not choose.
The house stood black against the moon,
its windows watching her ruin.
Behind its walls, his curses crawled
like spiders through the darkened hall.
She fled without a stitch or shoe,
beneath a sky of midnight blue.
Blood traced rivers down her knees;
her breath came broken through the trees.
The road was cold beneath her feet,
each stone a tooth, each shadow deep.
The branches clawed her naked skin,
as though the night would pull her in.
She heard his footsteps though none came.
The wind kept whispering her name.
She saw his face in every tree,
his hands in every shadowed leaf.
When headlights found her in the rain,
she did not cry or speak her pain.
She stared beyond the mortal scene
at something no one else could see.
They wrapped her in a woolen sheet,
but could not warm her hands or feet.
Her body lived, her lungs drew breath,
yet part of her had married death.
She asked them if the walls could bleed,
if ghosts could plant a living seed.
She swore the moon had watched him rise
with ravens nesting in his eyes.
They said, “You’re safe,” but safety seemed
another word inside a dream.
For every door became his face,
and every room became that place.
Now in the glass she sees two forms:
one who escaped into the storm,
and one still kneeling on the floor,
who never reached the open door.
At night, she hears that lost self, cry
from somewhere neither dead nor alive.
And when dawn stains the heavens red,
she cannot tell which one has fled.
Simona A. Brinson
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
By the time I found the field,
winter had already completed its careful revision of the world.
The snow had removed the unnecessary things—
footprints,
distinctions,
directions,
the small evidence that anyone had ever believed another body
could become a home.
I sat because there was nothing left to negotiate.
The ground beneath me was frozen to a depth
no season would confess aloud,
and I wondered whether grief begins this way:
not as an open wound,
but as a landscape surrendering itself molecule by molecule
to a silence so complete
it mistakes itself for truth.
Cold is not an absence.
It is an occupation.
It enters with the courtesy of light through old glass,
asking nothing,
forcing nothing,
only remaining
until every living thing begins to speak
in the language of endurance.
Soon my bones belonged more to the earth
than to the architecture of my own body.
Even breathing became archaeological—
lifting fragments of a life
already disappearing beneath weather,
dusting them gently,
only to discover
they had never been artifacts at all,
only ordinary mornings
made sacred by repetition.
Your name no longer arrived as memory.
It arrived as climate.
As something immense and indifferent,
moving invisibly through me,
altering migration patterns,
emptying forests,
teaching rivers
how to become stone without ever admitting
they had stopped flowing.
I have heard people speak of healing
as though it were a season.
They have never sat long enough
on frozen ground.
They have never watched snow continue falling
onto a world already buried,
understood how suffering possesses
an instinct for excess,
how grief cannot distinguish
between enough
and forever.
Around me,
the trees stood like abandoned cathedrals,
their branches lifting into the white
not in prayer,
but in surrender—
those black veins written across the sky
like a language too ancient
for the mouth to survive speaking.
The silence was unbearable
because it was populated.
Every unlived future wandered there.
The child we never named.
The arguments that dissolved before becoming words.
The ordinary Tuesdays
that will now belong forever
to no one.
Loss is not subtraction.
It is overcrowding.
The soul becomes a house
where every room is occupied
by someone who no longer exists.
I pressed my palm against the ice.
It did not feel cold.
Only absolute.
As though the earth had finally abandoned
the exhausting performance
of becoming.
As though beneath that white skin
the world had chosen permanence
over hope.
I thought then
that perhaps this is why snow is beautiful—
because it disguises extinction
as innocence.
Because it convinces the eye
that untouched and empty
are the same thing.
Because from a distance
even abandonment acquires
the geometry of grace.
When I finally stood,
my body left a shallow impression
where it had argued for hours
with the indifferent mathematics of winter.
The snow began filling it immediately.
Not hurriedly.
Not triumphantly.
Simply because the world has always known
how to continue
without witnesses.
I watched the hollow disappear,
watched the earth erase the shape
my grief had borrowed,
until there was nothing left
to suggest I had ever been there at all.
And for one impossible moment,
I envied the snow—
its flawless devotion
to forgetting,
its endless white mouth
closing over every wound
without ever having to learn
the unbearable labor
of forgiveness.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Rebecca R on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
She walks as though she fears no fight,
With sharpened words and eyes of night.
Her shoulders square, her voice held low,
So no one sees the hurt below.
She wears her anger like a shield,
A warning sign she will not yield.
Her laughter rings both hard and bright,
A blade she carries through the night.
They call her cold, they call her strong,
But never ask what made her wrong.
For underneath that iron skin
Lives all the pain she holds within.
Her armor hides a tender heart,
Still bruised from being torn apart.
She learned that softness comes with cost,
That open hands can still be lost.
So she stands firm and will not bend,
Afraid to trust, afraid to mend.
But armor grows too hard to bear
When no one knows the woman there.
One day, perhaps, she will decide
She no longer needs a place to hide.
And let the world, with gentle eyes,
Meet the softer woman inside.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by lesha tuman on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
My Life In Word 