Author: Simona A. Brinson
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Becoming Before I was a tree, I was a secret.I slept beneath the earth in a coat of darkness, small enough to be overlooked and quiet enough to be forgotten. Above me, the world carried on without knowing my name. Rain tapped softly against the soil. Worms tunneled past me like old neighbors. Roots from…
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The Space in Between II There is a place where silence grows,Between the yes and no one knows.A breath before the words are said,A thought that lingers in the head.Between goodbye and one more stay,Between the night and breaking day,Between a touch and letting go,Lives everything we never show.The space between is small yet wide,Where…
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Dirt and Leaves Dirt and leaves beneath my feet,crushed by rain and summer heat.Brown and gold, they twist and spin,hiding all that sleeps within.The wind arrives and makes them dance,lifting each by happenstance.Then down they fall, as seasons please,soft as whispers through the trees.Dirt and leaves, the old earth knows,from what has fallen, something grows.For…
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Imagine Imagining what I think he meantwhen he said that he would never leave.He meant not right now—but some day.I heard foreverbecause forever was what I needed.I filled the spaces between his wordswith promises he never made.A pause became hesitation.A touch became devotion.A night beside me became a lifetime,and every almost-loveI dressed in certainty.He never…
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In Silence And we sat there in silence,not a word spoken,but spoken just the same.Your eyes said what your lips would not,and mine had grown too tired to ask.Between us lay a thousand words,each one wearing silence like a mask.The clock kept talking for us,tick by aching tick,while shadows stretched across the roomand something in…
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Ode to an Ordinary Day O ordinary day, you ask for little—no thunderous sky, no grand parade,just morning light across the tableand coffee slowly being made.The sparrows gossip by the window,the laundry dances on the line,a neighbor waves, a screen door closes—small moments passing, yours and mine.No miracle announces itself,no trumpet tells us, Look this…
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Beneath the Priory Lot Beneath the Priory’s parking stone,Something stirs where roots have grown.No grave is marked, no bell is rung,Yet midnight speaks in an ancient tongue.The asphalt cracks when the moon hangs low,And pale hands rise from the earth below.Some say a monk was buried there—Still whispering curses into the air.So park with care…
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Ode to William Wallace O Wallace brave, with sword held high,You fought for freedom beneath Scotland’s sky.Though chains were offered, you would not kneel—Your heart was fire, your courage steel.The man may fall, the years may pass,But freedom still whispers through Highland grass. Simona A. Brinson Photo by John Cardamone on Unsplash ©mylifeinword.com All rights…
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The Common Man The common man survives quietly.He rises before the sun has decided what kind of day it will be. He pulls on yesterday’s tired shoes, carries tomorrow’s worries in his pockets, and goes to work beneath the weight of bills, promises, and mouths that must be fed. No trumpets sound for him. No…
My Life In Word 