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.
starstruck
split open by stars
filled with their light
from faraway
and eons old
forces at play
so colossal
I quail
yet welcome
their light
and alien touch
gracing my skin
engraving
the word imagine
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.
today
opening the door
I step outside
hear the holy hush
of five a.m. dark
no wind no birds
earth’s pause
anticipating first light’s
early rustle
I imagine
our resident squirrel
rubbing his eyes
sparrows drawing
their beaks from
beneath wings, blinking
then just beyond trees
dove tinge the promise
not wanting to hear
a car door close
or the choir
of tires on the road
I slip back
inside
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the brink
breath feels bright
and carries light
torso tingling
calm core within
relaxed anticipation
I’m on the brink
of the not-yet-known
clearer still
the not-yet-remembered
beyond threshold
the mossy rim
a never-before-noticed
caldera
both in and out of time
a touchstone
let go my hand
I’ll leap
the wish
as I get old
this wish grows strong
leave no trace
no name
no gravestone
no place to be found
but in squirrel play
and billowing clouds
slant light spilling
through birch on the hill
crickets and frogsong
the chorus at twilight
spring breezes touch
and the creek’s steady fall
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
beacon
The eye is the lamp. —Jesus of Nazareth
knowing shines forth
from each of us—
is it lively and present
or veiled?
each time I catch
a stranger’s eye
so much revealed
dialogue begins
before words
sometimes no words
are required
through their eyes
I feel their heart—
is it closed or
open for exchange?
I pay close attention
2024 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
it’s hard
He who binds to himself a joy does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies, lives in eternity’s sunrise. —William Blake
it’s hard
not to grab hold
of joy
beg her to stay
an honored guest
I’ll feed her tidbits
croon lullabies
wash her feet
but she only remains
when allowed
to wing in
and perch
for a flash or a day
if you let her be,
she may loiter nearby
delighted she’s free
fluffing her feathers
flitting in the light
sharing her joy
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
anticipation
tomorrow, solstice
tonight, the longest night—
the light’s return
entices
yet in the dark,
when the world lulls
and humans sleep,
when owl takes wing
to hunt
and fox and skunk
roam through our land
something inward quiets
this time calls
I too am wild,
free to prowl
my own impressions
a comfort cloak
that loosens words
allows them loll
and ramble
the joy
of radiance returning
brightens me inside
I crave them both
the dark, the light
2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.
the heart of the matter 