a mountain summer.

As February plods along, and I keep spying comments from my friends back in North Carolina about how beautiful the weather is there right now, I cannot help but reminisce about last summer. The summer I thought I might be leaving the Carolina mountains for good, the summer that saw so many memories made and much laughter heard. I didn't know it then, but it was the beginning of my realization, my realization that I love those mountains, and those forests and creeks--they had become part of who I am.
I've never been a huge poetry writer, I tend more for prose myself, but last summer I was incited to compose a poem. When I did rarely write poetry it was usually about longing for somewhere I wasn't, the occasional nature poem, or something about Jeremy and me. But this came out of no where, and I had to write it down, then I honed it, perfected it, and ended up loving it. It was like nothing I'd ever written before. It's one of those poems that you've written and you vaguely recognize the people in it, the feelings, and the surroundings, but it's not quite you--it's like your life in an alternate reality, if that makes sense. A poesy-version of your life.
Well, all this talk of spring and my recent discovery of my belonging to that place has made me remember that poem, and I thought I would share with you all. So without any more explanation, here it is.

Carolina Mountain Song

I’ll keep these memories in a mason jar, this sweet Carolina summer.

We make muggy memories while sipping sweet tea that clinks with amber ice on the porch,

The glasses in our hands sweating as much as we are.

But we don’t care much because we have each other, sweat and all.           

Our salty skin sticks together in a brief embrace.

The heat may restrain the physical touch of our promises,

But cannot hinder the way his eyes linger, like a honeybee over a new flower, on my face; my chest,

Breathing, glistening in the summer sun, as a river of salt runs down my dress.

Gloaming in the mountains has descended, and we revel in her mystery.

A vividly pale beauty that encompasses every color and none at all in one glance

The mountain song wings through the trees, touching every oak and pine

That air finds its way to us and plays us her music, sweet like summer strawberries, beneath the fading light.

The sun hides her face behind the ridges, but the heat doesn’t seem to notice

Pinks and purples color the sky in shades only found on a night like this once in your life

They creep across the misty mountains with otherworldly shades and shadows.

He tucks a dark curl behind my ear and sings a song meant for only me and these mountains.

Orchestras of lightning bugs are lightening up the twilit trees against a craggy blue,

And the smell of rain is fragrant on the evening breeze.

Oh, that breeze! Our own little piece of heaven

In this humid heat you could cut with a knife.

“Well… it’s a nice night for a knife fight.”

He says in a drawl more southern than my red gingham dress.

His green eyes meet my blue ones and we laugh and sigh together

For our last sweet summer in high Carolina.

by Caitlin B. Foreman 

Well, hopefully that can tide me over a wee bit until spring really does make herself known here in Scotland, and until I can go back and appreciate the summer dusk of the Carolina mountains once again.

Caitlin

i shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Well, the time has most certainly been whiled away, and we leave in just about two weeks for Edinburgh. (How crazy is that?!) It is time for me to shift to the new phase of my blog, since it will be used primarily to keep up with friends and family no longer near us, and to chronicle our adventures in Scotland. I found the above silhouette of the skyline of Edinburgh which included Edinburgh Castle and St. Giles Cathedral and thought it appropriate to welcome all my readers and crown my writings from now on. The title of my blog and also that of this post is the last line of the stanza that opens and closes the address Robert Burns wrote about Edinburgh. I've created a page that explains this as well, called 'name.' at the top of my blog, but I will also post the original poem here. It's beautiful, and made me love Robbie Burns all the more. The poem in it's entirety is as follows.

Address to Edinburgh
Robert Burns, 1786

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs:
From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise:
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,
Or modest Merit's silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

as promised.

I am updating this morning because I realize that I am in dire need of it, not because I have come prepared with stories, tales and photographs with which to regale my readers. I'll probably put up a photo post within the next few days to supplement this one, since this one will be photo-less.
Anyway, many things have gone on since my last post, my birthday, Jeremy's birthday, springtime arriving, tulips, a day frolicking at Biltmore with Chelsea (yes, we frolicked.) Among other things. Photos shall be posted, never fear. When though, that might be a tricky part.
My birthday was nice, full of family, friend, and red velvet cake. Jeremy's birthday was much the same, except cheesecake with fresh strawberries instead. Spring has most indubitably sprung, and I love it. Flowers are exuberantly beautiful and the trees are resplendent in new green. Festival of Flowers is well upon us at Biltmore and the tulips have just finished in a flourish and the snapdragons and foxgloves are in their stead. It's beautifully inspiring, the house, the gardens, the ground. I've written four poems in as many days, and begun a new novel. Which is all rather exciting, even if I'll probably not finish the novel, and not do anything with the poems. But writing for myself is enough for me, and that's important as a writer I think.
Edinburgh draws ever nearer as I have just purchased my plane ticket to fly over on September 1 (gasp!). Jeremy will probably be following me over in early October with Cael. We'll try to see if he can come earlier, but things aren't for sure yet--I'll be calling the airline this week. So it's official, we're definitely going. I've started some online Scots-Gaelic lessons so I'll have some background when I start school.
I've also gotten a promotion at work, more responsibility, new places to work, and a raise which is nice for my morale, and for my Scotland savings-fund. Hurrah!
I'm sure there's probably more to say, but I'll have to add it later, maybe in my photo post. Talk to you chumlie-wumlies later.

Mar sin leibh!

st. patrick's day

I felt it appropriate to share with you all today the prayer of St. Patrick's breastplate. St. Patrick was an amazingly inspiring man of God, and one that we can take example from in the way he preached the Gospel. Understanding the words of this prayer clarify the kind of man he was--one I should like to emulate everyday, not just the seventeenth of March.

I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same,
The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this day to me for ever.
By power of faith, Christ's incarnation;
His baptism in the Jordan river;
His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb;
His riding up the heavenly way;
His coming at the day of doom;
I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of the cherubim;
The sweet 'well done' in judgment hour,
The service of the seraphim,
Confessors' faith, Apostles' word,
The Patriarchs' prayers, the Prophets' scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord,
And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the starlit heaven,
The glorious sun's life-giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea,
Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, His shield to ward,
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.

Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours,
Against their fierce hostility,
I bind to me these holy powers.

Against all Satan's spells and wiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart's idolatry,
Against the wizard's evil craft,
Against the death wound and the burning,
The choking wave and the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name,
The strong Name of the Trinity;
By invocation of the same.
The Three in One, and One in Three,
Of Whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
Salvation is of Christ the Lord.


Amen.

inspired today.

It Comes to a Beginning

As the colors begin to fade

And the last of the warmth seeps away.

One last jaunt into the highlands to

Bid farewell to the glory of autumn.

We wander the hills

Over rocks and roots

Under felled trees not yet prostrate.

Soaking in the verity of the moment.

I shall call upon that memory made

One cold winter’s day, when all I see is frigid blue.

I’ll remember the warm golden sunlight

And the warm golden leaves before they spirited away.

And perhaps for a moment it will warm me again

Before reality lays ahold, and the blue seeps back in.

But these sweet trysts of autumn during winter, spring then summer

Find me back to when the leaves espy their courage.

By Caitlin B. Foreman

in verse.

No, I won't be writing this post in verse, but the subject will largely be upon that of verse--I'm sure none of you needed that clarification but look, I've gone and given it anyway.
This past weekend managed to be quite lovely in spite of the fact that I worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Jeremy and I made the trek to Hickory on Friday night through torrential rain to see a show at Drip's, which incidentally was my favorite teenage hangout which was since closed, then reopened under the same name though instead of being a coffee shop with occasional shows and open mic nights, is now a venue that happens to have a full espresso bar. Anyway, yet another needless clarification that I'm leaving in anyway. We arrived into Hickory a bit early so we could make a stop at our favorite public house, The Olde Hickory Taproom--Jeremy got a Scottish Ale and an Oktoberfest Seasonal beer while I got a Black Velvet (half hard cider, half Guinness). It was great to be there again, and all three of my favorite bartenders were working, which is always nice. After filling up on good beer and pub chips, we walked over to Drip's to await the start of the show. The opener, Ian Thomas, was a bit late so the start was pushed back a bit, but once he got there and everything started it was great. Ian was a folksy, bluesy, americana-esque singer, and his stuff was a lot of fun--full of guitar, harmonica, and kazoo, yes, kazoo.
Adrian Rice, Irish poet, went on next to reveal some of his newly written Hickory Haiku, that were absolutely brilliant. I've recently started reading his poetry again, since I've started to understand and appreciate poetry for this first time in my life. Let me tell you, he is phenomenal. I've known he was good, but reading poem after poem cleverly crafted and evocative in each its own way is a screaming testament to his singular talent. I feel honored to call him friend and inspiration to my own poetic aspirations. I was able to sit with him and his lovely wife Molly, and of course Peanut, to whom I look forward to meeting in person in March. It was wonderful to be able to sit with them, and catch up and just see their faces and hear their voices--it had been entirely too long. I look forward to catching up with them again soon, over Guinness and hot Irish stew.
After Adrian, the headliner, Alyn Mearns took the stage with his guitar. Beginning with his own rendition of David Bowie's Nature Boy which was merely the beginning of a beautifully poetic collage of verse and chords. One song in particular stuck with me, the words based on Napoleon's love letters to Josephine, a woman he never could conquer as all the land under his thumb. His whole set was just brilliant, and so unique. During one song, he used a wine glass to distort the sound of his guitar, sliding it up and down the strings. A tremendous talent, and a humble one too, which makes it all the better. His family, wife and kids, were all there too, which I always think is so neat to see. I was able to get a photograph of his son in the foreground with Alyn in the back, on stage, playing--I think it's a poignant shot.
Anyway, it was a great weekend, and so great to see Molly and Adrian, even with the news that my poem and short story were somehow never entered into the contest I sent them too. I've gotten over it now, and am just glad that I had to opportunity to witness such great talent in verse and music, and I hope I'll able to get Alyn and The Belfast Boys up here to Black Mountain to play at the White Horse sometime soon. I'm hoping to continue my education in poetry and shape my own poetic hand as well. Thanks for a great weekend.

Cheers,

Caitlin

autumn whispers his presence here.

I've been meaning to write for about a week now. Everytime I'm on the computer I go to my blog and sigh to myself, knowing I haven't the time to write all that I would want to. I did as much today when I sat down, but I decided that some writing is better than no writing at all--so here we are.
I'm still quite content with my job at Biltmore, and am still getting used to everything my head must contain in order to adequately perform said job, but I still love the fact that I get to work at such a richly historical place. I've been actually working inside the house for the past few days, and I absolutely love being able to do so. I get to go behind ropes and discover faster ways of getting from place to place where guests are not allowed, it's rather exciting.
I've also been quite enjoying the days that I have off. I go to work with Jeremy in the mornings at the Black Mountain Moments, and enjoy a latte made special for me by my husband, and a good read whilst taking in the usually misty mountain mornings. The eminent coming of autumn is most palpable on those mornings, particularly the misty ones that require light jacket and scarf--my long lost loves during the torrid summer. These mornings allow for peace and slowness, something not so readily available at work--except perhaps those early morning walks from my car to Biltmore house, though the times passes too quickly and I am swept away into the bustle of preparing for the day's guests. The slow mornings on the wooden porch next to my love are the days that keep me going through all the cumbersome days to follow--I look forward to my latte, book, and time to think and write that I need so badly to stay sane. I have recently taken my hand to poetry again, and trying forms on for size. I wrote a ballad for the coming autumn that I think I'll share, just to spur on the arrival of my favorite season.


Autumn Abides

Autumn whispers his presence here.
It's the smell on the crisp breeze dancing in my curls dark,
The harvest moon rising vast and bright through the halcyon sky
Hailing the brilliance of autumn before sinking to winter's stark.

The crisp grows chill as necks and arms are covered.
Mountain winds blow from the distant peaks.
Clouds shroud the valley in an otherworldly mist
Sailing deeper into autumn's boreal weeks.

Trees quiver in the chill air.
Leaves sway to autumn's musical shade.
A firelight of colors blaze in the canopy,
A flicker of beautiful death before the colors fade.

Autumn whispers his presence here.
It's the smell on the crisp breeze dancing in my curls dark,
The harvest moon rising vast and bright through the halcyon sky
Hailing the brilliance of autumn before sinking to winter's stark.

Autumn abides in this mountain valley
Colors of vermilion, sweet orange, and gold here dwell.
Regal purples join in the serenade of hues,
All vivid before ghosting to the ground in one final quell.

Evening comes here in sun and season
Deep blue colors the landscape and the mind.
Autumn's twilight arrives as Boreas blows stronger,
But my heart is bound to autumn as fast as any can find.

Autumn whispers his presence here.
It's the smell on the crisp breeze dancing in my curls dark,
The harvest moon rising vast and bright through the halcyon sky
Hailing the brilliance of autumn before sinking to winter's stark.



Breathing in Autumn's arrival,

Caitlin

castles and coffee.

Today is my first day off this week, and it was much needed--and is currently being much appreciated. I have found myself imbibing more often than tea now, coffee, which is rather strange because I used to hate coffee, and at the same time not strange at all, considering what Jeremy does. I thought I'd confess that to my readers since those who have been following for a while are aware of a previous dedication to hot tea. Don't get me wrong, I still love tea, and come autumn and winter I will be found quite more often with teacup in hand, rather than coffee--but I felt compelled to confess my brief fling with vanilla lattes.
I am now finished with on-the-job training at Biltmore and had my first day on the line in the Welcome Center by myself on Saturday. It's going well, and I get more comfortable everytime I'm there --though I'm still insanely nervous until I'm at my station and the sheer number of people in my line make me forget about how nervous I am and force me to conquer the masses. So that's going well. And yes, I work at a castle. In fact, this is where I work (see amazing photo, and prepare to be insanely jealous at the beauty of my castle *eye twitch*).
Jeremy and I went to the flower carpet evening for the employees last Thursday, and it was a romantic rainy twilight for us. First of all, Jeremy's never been to the house before, so that was fun in itself--but seeing the castle in waning gloaming, and meandering around the grounds hand in hand imagining the estate to be our own is making me look out the window in fond remembrance as I type. A light rain fell all evening, though not enough to extinguish the torches lighting the garden, nor our own flame of exuberance for each other and the marvelous sites we were sharing. The rain pulled in low clouds and fog that settled fantastically in the mountain valleys at which we gazed from the south terrace of the house. The light rain eventually soaked us through as we wandered the water garden admiring giant lily pads and excellence of stone masonry. As we passed last pond of the water garden there was a small stone archway beneath the stairs leading up to the front of the house, I pulled Jeremy in with me, out of the rain, and stole a kiss in the midst of the dim blue gloaming. A tryst, only seconds, but reveled in.

Autumn is beginning to stretch his crisp tendrils into my mountain valley, in the evenings the air cools and crisps and that excites me. Just two nights ago I walked outside with my pup and took in a full deep breath of autumn air--I could smell it, it's faint but I know it is there. Come autumn, and we shall sway once more in poetic inspiration. I wait in patience for the coming of vivid hues and the sweet smells of the season.

Anticipatingly,

Caitlin

tealess. [another loss]

This has been a rough few weeks for me. Remembering the subject of my post last week, and now I just got a call from my mother telling me that I no longer have any grandparents left--my papaw passed away last night. Sad as I am for this loss, I know in his case that he was miserable in the nursing home he was in, and cursed his immobility. He longed to drive car again, something each of us take for granted everyday, he longed to check his birdhouses, and enjoy the spring as another blue jay would give him the honor of choosing the birdhouse he built, painted, and put up in his yard. Now he is able to do all that and more--he is in the presence of his Heavenly Father, and can walk with him through gilded streets of heaven without pain. Keep my family in your prayers, Papaw was a character, and will be sorely missed.
I wrote this poem in light of recent events.

Swearing Fealty

Winter begins to wane,
As spring waxes easily into my senses.
Daffodils raise sunny faces to the heavens,
The first to awake from wintry slumber.
Everything around me breathes life,
Yet everything in my head screams death.
A bright, young friend, but two weeks ago,
And last night, my only remaining grandfather.
Remaining no longer.
Death sits heavily in my mind,
I pray he doesn’t look in my direction too soon.
Life blooms in my mountain valley,
But death creates a valley of despair in my mind.
Battling for the fealty of my thoughts
I struggle to give both their due allegiance.
A man cannot serve two masters.
Weep for death, give joy for life,
And remember who it is that bestows both.

Caitlin B. Foreman

black currant black tea. [missing him]

Jeremy is in South Carolina this whole week, as well as the weeks to come, doing stone masonry with Bill Gautsch, the stone mason he's worked with so many times before. He is to come home on the weekends, and return to the rock pile the following early Monday morning. This is the first week of my month of lonely, and I have to admit it has been rather trying. I do not enjoy climbing into a cold bed that is usually warmed by my space heater of a husband, and having to fall asleep knowing he's not beside me. It's hard, but I know it is necessary to aid our financial stability, and I know that Jeremy is probably having a harder time than I am. He's the one that gets up and is at the job site laying heavy rock a little after sun-up every morning, until sun-down every evening. He's working so hard for us, and I am so proud of his strength and diligence--he's an amazing husband, and I miss him so. Though this is hard, I know it is good for us in ways besides the financial. It strengthens our bond as husband and wife, and also helps each of us appreciate the other so much more. It has been hard not seeing him, but as corny as this sounds, our hearts have not be separated. Anyone who is married will understand what I mean. I miss his physically, but he never left me spiritually--and I take comfort in that.
Here is another poem that I wrote in lieu of his absence and my cold nature without him.

Cold Feet

No second guesses, just cold extremities
Lying alone in this bed for two.
Miles away, my love toils with rock and stone,
The way I feel when he’s away.
Stone cold without his warmth—
Though not nearly as stalwart.
Comforted knowing he thinks upon me,
Toiling with rock and stone for my sake,
For my comfort—he provides.
Hearts never separated, no matter the distance.
But the lack of his warm embrace still painfully tangible.
His strength keeps me strong, and his love keeps me able
To soldier on, to keep my head above the weighing water
Pressing heavy and menacing against my fragile demeanor.
Breathing deep, thinking of him—
I put on woolen socks to temper the chill
Until my love returns with his warmth,
Fortifying my fractured bulwark with his own stony strength.
The only remedy from my wintry solitude.



Missing my other half,

Caitlin

scottish breakfast tea. [onions]

I apologize ahead of time for this post not being as uplifting as some of my other ones have been. Being graduated from college and residing in "the real world"-- which is nothing like MTV's reality show I'll have you know--I am realizing how hard things really are. Trying to pay bills and make enough money to get by is something I thought I was used to--but apparently I wasn't. I'm not going to lay my soul out here on a public blog post, but I needed to post, and there's really nothing else to post about. I have another job now, at the Movie Gallery in Black Mountain--not exactly the job I imagined for myself post-graduation, but it's money and we need it. But we're still struggling. We'll survive I have no doubt about that, but it's exhausting being on this emotional rollar coaster of waiting for paychecks and paying bills.
Last night while I was making caramelized onions for part of dinner, I realized how much it was affecting me. Before chopping the onions, I lit a candle to quell the fumes that always berate my tears ducts, but this time the candle didn't do its job. The onion tears came, and before I could stop what was happening, they became true, sobbingly hot tears running down my face. As I thought about what I was doing and why I was crying this poem came to me. I transcribed from mind to paper this afternoon, and this is what my evening of caramelizing onions turned into.

Uncaramelized Onions

Onion tears turn to real tears as they fall, stinging.
Nobody said it was easy, everyone said it would be this hard.
Listening to The Scientist, the mellow notes do nothing to soothe,
A mere reminder of the tribulation.
Chopping, stirring, to caramelize my onions
Peeling away the layers, things look grim.
Rent, phone, credit cards, school loans—we’ll never have enough.
No amount of sugar can make these onions sweet,
The tears still come.
I burn a candle to stifle the fumes.
Burning a candle never helped anyone—for whom do we burn?
For whom do we burn the candle?
His hand is upon all this,
Why can’t I feel it?
The flame comforts me not, chopping.
Keep stirring the onions, they never stop stinging.
Or maybe I won’t stop weeping.
These tears weren’t supposed to be real.
They are.
Nobody said it was easy, I never thought it would be this hard.


On that note, as a disclaimer, I wanted to tell my readers that I'm okay. This poem is pretty dismal, but it's how I felt at the time. I know everything is going to work itself out, but I still needed my time to wallow. Thanks ahead of time for your concern--but really, I'm fine.

Caitlin

cranberry green tea. [upon request]

Upon the request of my lovely friend, Ellar, I will post a poem that I wrote recently--it's the only one I have, so I cannot completely fulfill her request and post a different poem, but we'll see what I can come up with in the coming weeks. The content of this poem is--surprise--in the same vein as my last two posts.

White Flag

Contentedness.
My mouth says, “I am.”
As my spirit throws itself
Against my wall of wishful thinking.
There I will be. So bonny and green.
What about now?
Here in my fruitless fruition.
I cannot loose my grasp.
What if He forgets?
In the hallway of my life
Glimpses of rooms unexplored.
A glimmer of contentedness.
Doors slam, tears fall.
Here. Now.
What am I doing?
Something. Nothing.
The voice whispers softly.
Find contentedness here.
Now.
“I will not forget,” He promises.
Blessing cannot come
Until I let Him take it.
Take me.
Let go, you selfish girl.
I’m not struggling against Him.
I’m struggling against myself.
Fruitless by choice.
Turn around, He is waiting.
Desiring to give true fruition.
Let Him come.
Here’s my white flag,
I surrender.
Please… Take me before I change my mind.


Caitlin B. Foreman

hot apple cider. [poesy]

I tried my hand at poetry for the first time in two years. I long to be a poet. Here is my attempt.

"Sway Once More"
It is twilight of autumn, the chill in the air is sharper, biting.
Once vivid hues but few dawns hitherto enraptured my senses,
Now grow dim to dour shades of brown.
Winds beat the brethren of leaves from their lofty seats,
Ghosting to their mass grave of fading autumn shades.

The once full arms, now bare bones of branches left destitute.
Gale after gale moans through the boughs of birch, maple, and oak alike;
Each leaf that lightly falls is one step closer to the bleak of winter.
Soon only skeletons remain, barely a whisper of the splendor they once held.

The long winter approaches, already breathing into the misty valley.
I ignore it while I can, remembering the peak of autumn’s glory,
While I dance among the fallen comrades; they follow my twists and turns.
One last dance before the color altogether dies,
Right foot, turn, left foot, turn, a curtsy and a bow.

Fare thee well, we shall dance once again
When passes harsh winter, demure spring, and sultry summer,
And once again the air grows crisp with your presence,
Promising shades of sweet orange, gold, and crimson.
Then I will sway once more with the refrain of the autumnal muse.