tincture
Let me bathe my soul in colors; let me swallow the sunset
and drink the rainbow. —Khalil Gibran
when I can’t find
my footing
and my spirits are low
sunrise’s bloom
or sunset’s blaze
slides down my throat
the tincture of grandeur
buoying
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
lightkeeper
to tend the flame
feed it twigs
then forage boughs,
my homage—
to kindle warmth
in my small sphere
sometimes it sputters
amidst hard rain
I shield it
with my hands
my heart breathe
embers awake again
this, the work
it calls my name
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
seasons
growing body gaining skill
first steps, attempts
putting it together
new loves
untried adventures
the middle span
assessments
reviews, confessions
now, taking away—
from friend, beloved
or myself
small or large
twitch, twang, or sorrow
every day a leaving
sobering,
this season of losses
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
readiness
I wander the chasm
of not-knowing
waiting
like testing mango
a slight give
implies ripeness
if not
no letdown or regret
just not ready
a gate’s like that
when it clicks
the way opens
no idea where it goes
I follow
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the flash
Enormous repose after, enormous repose before,
the flash of activity. —Robinson Jeffers, “The Treasure”
life, a flash—
in the long sweep
barely a blip
out of repose
poured into form
why do we feel
important?
we’re certainly
not special,
only unique
inevitably frayed
slipping out of form,
we return to repose
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
planting
The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago.
The second-best time is now. —old Chinese proverb
I wonder, is
it just too late?
why bother
to seed new ways
it takes so much—
rhythms required
to change
and not just mine
but those I love
and yet
I survey this land
we moved here
a decade ago
mended the shabby
and raked white rock
now the yard
a mini farm
rosemary cascade
apple, Comice pear
and fig—
the most arcane,
nectaplum
July sweet feast
so I clear
new inner ground
set intention
bear discomfort
knowing change
will bear good fruit
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the quiet
Silence is not just the lack of sound, but a door opener. —Adyashanti
moving into quiet
beneath the natter
that runs on its own
I set down my load
leave it for later
finally
open and boundless
my body sighs
to be not do
what great fortune
now I move toward
the door at the back
of my mind
slip through it—
wonder and joy
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
flare
sometimes the sacred is excruciating —Koshin
that flash insight
barreling toward me
unforeseen
knowing
blowing doors open
then fit into place
suddenly evident
the world goes on
unshaken, remade—
who is it that needs
to adapt?
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
bedtime
quiet dark embraces—
my nest is warm
and weighted
tired body releasing
into this reflection…
blue light pulsing
from vigilance
to insight
steady rhythm
supports the glide
slipping toward sleep
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
lift off
a jet
catapulted
inbound, I sail
into immense
uncharted reaches
this world
neuroplastic
building pathways
nourishing kinship
here—
pruning there,
troublesome mind
is it only inattention
that snips synaptic links?
if so, take my hand
we’re moving
into fresh
healthy soil
I’m sowing seeds
of kindness
and creation
clear light floods
words as elegant
as birds flit and call
this universe
one song
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 