Poetry by Melissa Baron


The world is a back yard
An empire of green grass, gardens, and fences,
Conquered by curiosity and boredom on a hot day
Or a cool one, or any day at all, really.
Every rock, rose, and rabbit tunnel explored
By small questing hands and bare feet
Where grass is cool and sweet on soles and toes,
And rocks sharp on tender flesh as the chase is halted
By jagged edges in the roses’ rock haven.
When happiness is a cold glass of water,
Quenching parched throats in the summer heat,
A playmate with imagination miles wide,
And love waiting just inside the sliding glass door
Wearing a smile.



Cogs and wheels creak and turn
In a young overworked mind.

Spindles rusted, unused, protesting,
Overwhelmed by emotion
That sends these dormant contraptions
Into the harried state of her mind.

She is not used to this.
Anxiety seizes her heart
Chilled air rushes
Goose bumps down her arms,
A short walk away from the source
Of her terror.

Muscles move like
Marionette strings
Torn between moving
Toward what she wants in her heart –
The strongest marionette string in her body –
And running away.

Oh, that would be safer, wouldn’t it?
Blood pumps faster
Rushing to her cheeks
Mind flashing to luminous blue,
A captivating smile.

Her breath stutters;
Closer now.
Curtain’s almost up and her mind is
Filled with panic
Giddy terror stuck in the spokes
Rendering those wheels useless.

The source comes in sight
And it is too late to run.
He turns the smile on her
As she works up the courage
That will allow her to speak.



White pinpoints of light burn steadily
In the velvet black sky of a new moon
Seemingly random, carelessly thrown about
A tossed bag of twinkling confetti
Adrift a vast, cold empty sea
Ever burning
Searing hot, warming the universe
Budding blue
Vibrant yellow
Dying red
Massive beyond our comprehension
Ancient to our brief, miniscule existence.
We are all made of star dust
We are made of the stuff that gives warmth to the universe.



It creeps

A silent bitter thief, robbing the air of warmth and land of life;
Lacing fall with frost, crystallizing groves of grass,
Glittering on bare tree limbs stripped of former glorious hues,
Rendering dawn a cold, still beauty.

Freezing the last stubborn leaves of the dying season;
Drained, they drift soundlessly to the chilled ground.
Cool, crisp air begins to bite and nip,
Vicious winds steal breath and sear lungs with frigid air.

Snow blows or falls lazily, powdering the landscape,
Layering the world under a coat of white.
The night is luminous, the pale moon reflecting off fields of snow,
Killing true darkness for its few months’ existence.

Life slows; birds flee, animals hibernate and hide away,
Awaiting the end even as it begins.


Spring to Come

A beaten path carries me through the day,
Worn asphalt halves the land. So I journey,
Sloping down hills of brittle grass, dry clay
Thirsty for rain the clouds will not let free.
Naked trees with fingers locked from winter’s bite
Revive with warmer winds, loosening grips,
Thawing with the absence of winter’s might
And welcoming birds to rest on bare branch tips.
Many lament for spring’s green, wild splendor;
But I like the hushed air of spring to come,
Cold lakes, huddled forests waiting for
The chance to wear spring jackets, wreath flowers spun.
The promise of sweet things trembling in air’s
Fine space, soothes my soul greater than spring’s flair.