watercolor by Marcos Beccari



Observed from a distance below the surface, she is concealed by inky blue, limbs kicking free, ripples surround.

Head submerged with a beacon of sun, befall the baptism.

She surfaces from the spotlight and swims to the short berth where a companion awaits. Not so pure the mix and live with anticipation, Golden wags wildly, seeing her after playing obedient guardian of the towel. 

She dries, dancing on the dock in exciting reunion with her best friend as he jumps, laps, and butts into her legs like a baby doe. The truest young love anyone can see. The observer feels alliance even from afar.

Missteps in time, now she is facing the lake floor, quietly floating away, a flat balsa lifeless and calm.

Golden is wild, barking bravery wasted on the dock of departure. Moments lost for any words, thoughts, apperception.

Sight within, another birth to parlay.

The observer is wet too.


watercolor by Marcos Beccari



The knot in my stomach


squeezing tears, dripping

like a soaked towel left on the clothesline in

pouring rain twisted

in clenched fists.

I’ve missed you so much

just as you miss him

now still here, yet not

Forcing myself to remember better

times at the playground I no longer recognize

modern mounds of green short of chained pleasures

smaller and tighter

Dolly in her stroller, she used to sit and swing

secure next to me as you kept watch

all ghosts there now

We, in our world playing with dolls

at that park

in the living room, on the kitchen table

I hold onto the grainy snapshots

as you sit near me no longer here

Now you cower alone in the kitchen

listening to melodies of his native tongue

understood better than when he spoke to you

And you cry as I cry

gripping, face twisted and squeezed

wishing he would visit you in this desolate place

while all I want is your eyes to return

to see a pretty sunrise

or a robin pecking in the yard

I know you cannot, will

not allow yourself such pleasures

Angry words burn

in my head as I realize we are

the same

guilt and loss, a penance

boring holes too deep to fill with

empty words now



The early dawn speaks in moody color

Awakening with a recollection of my lunar mother

As she flew to my throat, this master of disguise

Determined to soften, to illuminate a vernal path of light

Wealth in blind faith, I will follow.


Nocturnal luster flutters forth, and I can see clearer now

Enchantment from the shadow depths

Change is apparent as I question purity at hand

Intuitive birth beginning from a mere thought

Wealth in blind faith, I do follow.


Spoken words from within rising to my lips

A collective emerges

Under the velvet moon we rise, voices void of sound, rich in color

Drawing innermost shadows to the canvas

Wealth in blind faith, we follow.


Searching for balance and beauty, a portal sought

In realms of truth and trust

Passage to where though? dare I ask

Uncertainty reigns under the velvet moon

But wealth in blind faith, I still follow.


~Sonya M. Fitzmaurice