Author: Simona A. Brinson

  • A POEM A DAY 212

    ELEGY FOR THE BREATHING HORSE Beneath the pallid winter boughsWhere daylight wanes and shivers thin,A sable horse, with lowered brows,Stands cloaked in fog and breath and sin.Its nostrils bloom with ghostly fire,A vapor born of hidden heat,As though the soul, grown cold and tired,Still whispered live through lungs and beat.The leather creaks. The iron waits.The…

  • Snow Bunnies

    It’s thirty-five degrees in this small North Florida town, the kind of cold that feels borrowed, like it won’t stay long enough to learn my name. Then they arrive— not snowflakes exactly. Reminding me of dust bunnies as they drifting loose from the sky, soft, unsure, floating past my face before vanishing into nothing. I…

  • Friday Favorites: Don’t Quit

    Don’t Quit ~by Edgar A. Guest When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill, When the funds are low and the debts are highAnd you want to smile, but you have to sigh,When care is pressing you down a bit,Rest! if you must─but never quit. Life is queer,…

  • Deciding Whether to Plug In

    The breaker blew sometime before dawn—a quiet failure, the house holding its breath. By morning the electrician arrived with a tool belt and calm hands. The breaker, it turned out, hadn’t really blown at all. It came back on the moment he flipped it—the same breaker I had flipped several times before finally calling him.…

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  • A POEM A DAY 211

    BECOMING BLUE No one remembers the moment it happened, only that the sea noticed first. The blue starfish had once been the color of sand, pale and unremarkable, shaped like something meant to blend in rather than be seen. It clung to rocks and let tides pass over it without complaint. It learned early that…

  • “Should You Go First” offers a quiet glimpse into what authentic, enduring love looks like—love that does not cling, but steadies itself in the face of loss. Written by Albert Rowswell after the death of his wife, the poem is an act of devotion shaped by acceptance rather than fear. Its gentle sorrow is not…

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