A Rose Grows in the Mist: A Book of Poetry

By Dana C. Neal

A Rose Grows in the Mist is a collection of poetry that encompasses all aspects of emotion. It will be enjoyed by both men and women of all ages and walks of life. Drawing on personal experiences and life lessons, Mrs. Neal has written works that she hopes will inspire you to think deeper, enjoy life, and delve into the passion inside your heart. This is your life. Dream it. Live it. Enjoy it. Share it. Be who you were created to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483652320

Dana C. Neal

Dana Neal is a native of a small town in East Texas. She has been a shoe salesman, high school agriculture teacher, construction assistant, warehouse employee, and author. She is the mother of five children, two boys and three girls.

Book preview

A Rose Grows in the Mist

A Book of Poetry

Dana C. Neal

Copyright © 2013 by Dana C. Neal.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013910466

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4836-5231-3

                Softcover       978-1-4836-5230-6

                Ebook           978-1-4836-5232-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 06/07/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

134875

Contents

The Beauty of the Fall

The Looking Glass

When the Stars turn Gray

A Golden Shade of Silver

A Penny for My Thoughts

View from my Windowsill

The Wishing Well

Worlds Apart

Predator and Prey

The Glass Wall

A Shiny Container

Downshift

Introspection

Fragile Strength:

a letter to my children

On the Journey Home, I Saw

One Does

Story of My Life

The Escape

Inspiring

The Author’s Inkling becomes Her

Free

Handle with Care

Mary Alice

I Am

My Temporary Home

Windows to the Soul

Vision

Past My Window

Consumed, or Consumable?

Solitude

Fishing in the Dark

Guinevere

Fans

The Mirror

Choices

Value

The Other Son

Just A Dreamer

Doe Eyes

A Rose Grows in the Mist

This book is dedicated to all of my family and friends who encouraged me to write; especially to Mr. Henderson, who said I had a special gift, and to Jose, who encouraged me to share it with the world.

I appreciate very much my husband and children for loving me as I am. I love you all very, very much, too. Thank you for walking with me on this journey of dreams.

The Beauty of the Fall

October is the time of the Hunter’s Moon. It is the time when darkness is illuminated by the most beautiful, simple touch of light.

October is the time of harvest. All that grows is gathered, is precious, and is needed to survive the other seasons.

October is the time of Indian Summer. After the coldest frost, heat comes and things desire to come alive. Those living do not think of the barren death to come. Instead, they adorn themselves in the most beautiful array of color. Everywhere, there is magnificence and beauty.

October is the time of masks and parties and sweet delights. For a moment, people pretend to be what they imagine. They enjoy the darkness and make believe it is not as scary as it appears.

October is the time when two twin souls happened upon each other. In the light, they met in an extraordinary way. They had been prepared only for frost, but experiencing the Fall, they were filled with warmth for each other. In the twilight, while others slept, they hunted dreams among the stars. Both able to see light despite the darkness, they took advantage of the Hunter’s Moon and searched deeply within each other for the sustenance they craved. This year, masks did not bring such delight, nor did treats of years past taste as lovely as they once did.

The weather became unseasonably warm. The leaves canopied their world with a beautiful pallet of rare colors, so natural, and so lovely. It did not matter that the color might be temporary. Its beauty shown so vividly; it was sure to never be forgotten.

In time, the colors of the leaves turned to a mundane gray and the souls stepped upon the leaves as if there were nothing of importance beneath their feet. Memories were treated much the same way. The souls were, at times, blanketed in a torrential downpour of freezing sleet and snow. They begin to feel so cold. Gone were the playful days of Indian Summer. There was only enough energy to exist from task to task. The souls drifted apart, lost in the busy responsibility of life, of work, of things to do instead of things to be.

Winter cannot last forever. Life must come. Heat will arrive. There will be times to enjoy color again. One soul spoke to the other, Come with me past October. Hold me close in the frigid cold of Winter. Tenderly care for me, just as a child holds the delicate flower of Spring. Explore my world. Pierce my soul with fiery passion as hot as the Summer sun. Kiss me with sweat dripping in your hair. Lay with me in the frost and talk of what is to come. Play with me in the color of the Indian Summer. From October to October, never say goodbye. Remember this time of wonder. Always, my love, be thankful for the Fall. Like a leaf dancing in the wind, I fall with you ever so gently, and all of a sudden. Let’s dance among the color, year after year after year.

The souls close their eyes and imagine the world once again filled with color and warmth. It is a memory that flickers and sometimes is hard to imagine. But, they wait and they sit still, taking time to just be.

This is how love lives. In a world where all seasons are expected and experienced, souls remember the beauty of the Fall. Its memories are vivid with color; it is never forgotten.

The Looking Glass

From the safety of the closet, a searching hand grasps a tool; a magnifying, rather small piece of dusty introspective spy glass. Can it tell a tale of significant magnitude? If one wishes hard enough, will pieces of one’s self appear within this dark closet of baggage, dust, packed dreams, festive treasures, and reminiscent scraps of time?

The eye peers through the glass. No. The closet is much too dark.

The sunshine, perhaps, will elude this soul to the packages hidden amongst the crevices of memory and scar. The sun shines so bright. It burns. Everywhere, things are brilliantly alive. Self is lost among the myriad of distraction.

Possibly, in the rain, under the protection of an umbrella, self will appear more clearly. The eye again peers through the glass. There are reflections everywhere. The multitude of water reveals distorted images of self. It is too much. Overwhelming are the images displayed. The eye shuts in quiet desperation.

A lonely teardrop begins to fall. The first is dismissed. Many more flow freely and are lost in the rain.

A ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds. One last tear remains. The eye peers through the glass at this tiny speck of feeling and wonders from whence it has come. In its travels, has it seen the crevices of the soul? What can be magnified in this minuscule reflection of the self?

The eye peers with great care and sees a beautiful truth. The scars of