Author: courtneybosworth

We start our work to serve the target mind,

As every honest craft should always start;

We read the marketplace to see behind

The rivals who contend to win the heart.

A single, golden promise must be clear,

For none will buy if nothing moves the soul;

With striking art and words that draw them near,

We light a spark to reach the final goal.

The copy catches eyes without pretense,

A clever turn of phrase to pull them in;

Yet cleverness alone makes little sense,

Unless the product holds the power within.

For if the promise fails when choices lie, The spark will fade, and every ad will die.

Loneliness had settled deep into the floorboards.

For eight long years, I was my mother’s anchor to the world—

The pugs kept watch by daylight, and I took over the night.

When she passed, the dogs and I carried the quiet together,

Until time claimed them too, and left me alone in the frame.

Two silent years passed. The quiet in the rooms began to sink in.

“Get another pet,” everyone advised. “Get a cat.”

“No,” I declared, adamant. “I am simply not a cat person.”

And then came Lily and Misty—the Terror Twins.

Lily, the exotic tiger, wrapped in sharp gray and black stripes;

Misty, the quiet aristocrat, draped in soft, seamless ash.

Separately, they are the gentlest creatures in the whole wide world.

Together, the peace is shattered, and the Terror takes the floor.

They bounce off the upholstery like stray cannonballs,

Scaling the drapes and turning the hallway into a speedway.

They launch themselves down the staircase in a flurry of fur,

Ensuring the house is never, ever quiet—

Especially at midnight, when the real mischief begins.

The heavy silence has finally fled the house,

Replaced by two wild, gray heartbeats.

The “Terror” remains, And my world is infinitely better for it.

They flutter through the branches, they sail upon the breeze,

God’s little pilots riding through the green canopy of trees.

Floating through the quiet air, they bring a welcome grace,

A quick and lovely pause within a busy, restless space.

I gaze out from the window at the feeders hanging high,

Restocked with seeds to greet the wings that travel through the sky.

From subtle wrens to brilliant jays, they gather in a crowd,

A flurry of soft feathers where the morning sings aloud.

The mourning doves sit heavy, while the woodpeckers take part,

Each sudden flash of color bringing comfort to my heart.

Yet of all the gentle creatures that grace my fleeting view,

The goldfinch is the beacon that shines the morning through.

With bright and yellow bodies catching sunlight as they run, They leave a simple whisper that life is meant for fun.

Some are kind, some are sad.

Some are green, some are blue.

Some are gentle, some are angry.

Some are old, some are new.

Some see everything.

Some see no more.

Some have known only love,

Some, the horrors of war.

They are the first thing we notice.

They are what keeps us whole.

Our eyes are what make us, us—

The windows to our soul.

My birth arrived on a day I cannot recall,

But they tell me the solstice sun covered it all.

The longest of days, bathed in a summer glare,

A Father’s Day Sunday, heavy in the air.

Now, I find the calendar plays a cruel joke,

Preferring the quiet where the midnight spoke.

The extra hours of daylight offer me no grace,

Just a burning sun that I cannot embrace.

I seek the deep shadows where the timber stands tall,

Where the judging rays of the summer never fall.

I avoid the bright beaches and the glaring heat,

Finding my sanctuary in a shaded retreat.

But the years turn around, and the mocking returns,

A fatherless child while the solstice sun burns.

When the calendar aligns in its brightest display, The world only highlights what was taken away.