BTT # 60: The Little Deaths

driftwood woman
Image from William’s Art, can be found for reference at


The Little Deaths


Once these deaths

Did not feel little,

But more

Like explosions


And fickle

Fires in the

Night of summer

Fading quickly

To a memory

Of what it craves

Never finding ground

Before it passes

Still thirsting

Wanting more.


Now it holds me

Like the ocean

Floating in

Arms enveloping

With slow grace

The motion

Of waves

Washing me smooth.

I have nothing left

Within me,

Except that

Hidden speck

Of polished flotsam

Slowly lifted

By the tides

Before crashing


On the shore

-Lona Gynt July 2019.  All Rights Reserved


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18 thoughts on “BTT # 60: The Little Deaths

    1. Therisa Godwaldt

      Lona, I think your mom would be proud of you, for writing this poem. Too often, we refuse to accept that we have bodily needs, which we deny ourselves, the holistic release.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. I was thinking of the Shakespearean meaning of “little death” when I read this. I don’t know if you meant it as metaphor for that but I think it is apt. Beautiful imagery you used here!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Like explosions
    And fickle
    Fires in the
    Night of summer
    Fading quickly
    To a memory

    I’m reeling from this poem….so much here. The words I quoted above remind me of the fireflies on a hot Iowa summer night….we don’t have them in Boston. But then I think of how each one of us dies a little each day. We live….yes we do….but there are a myriad of little deaths in each one of us every day….until we are but a polished flotsam…what another wonderful line. It’s as if we live as a piece of sea glass….being churned….and changed. So much to think about here….

    Liked by 1 person

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