Night (A poem)
Night
The vast silent weight
of limitless indigo sky
weighs on my ears
like relentless waves
on a broken furrowed field.
The grass, seared
to sisal by the blasts of July,
crackles under my feet.
I am but dust in the cosmos
under a bulbous pearl of moon.
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by Hyacinthe Miller
•
11 March 2026
Bernice was my mother's name. It's still difficult for me to say that out loud. She's been gone for years, but I have so many happy memories.. Thanksgiving and Christmas were always busy, happy times for our family - music, laughter, food, company, drinks and desserts aplenty. As the only and firstborn girl, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen learning from my mom. The purpose wasn't only cooking, though. In the warm, scented confines between the countertop, the stove and the fridge, we'd chat about almost everything. She'd listen to my adolescent tales of woe or triumph and I'd hear snippets of her life story before and after children. My three younger brothers learned the basic culinary skills when they got older, but their main objective was to taste whatever savoury or sweet item we were preparing.








