National Poetry Month, Day #14

Where the Red Bushes Blaze

Red River Bushes, Acrylic on Canvas, By Author

She walks the river before the sun
claims the mist for itself.
The gravel shifts beneath her shoes
like it’s not quite sure she belongs.

No one’s expecting her.
No one’s missing her.
Not really.

She’s not the woman
who laughed in the pews
or lingered at barbecues
or saved the casserole recipe.

She had her own flair,
her own flare-ups.
Left a marriage she never quite entered,
shed friendships like wet coats.

She walks, not to forget,
but to remember something
that hasn’t happened yet —
a possible kindness
from a place that understands
why color needs silence.

And there — where the red bushes blaze
against the cool hush of trees —
she stops.

She doesn’t pray.
She doesn’t cry.
She just listens,
until the ache inside her
matches the sky.