Though the
moonlight
doesn’t run
out,
and the sun
doesn’t choose
who it warms.
Still I keep
resisting
something
as if I’m
working
against the
earth. .

When I was a kid,
emotions were
monotonous.
A candy was
just a candy.
Happiness came
fast and full.
I didn’t wonder
who gave it,
or why.
I just smiled
and ate.
Now,
I think too much
about hearts,
about hands,
about faces,
about the things
people want
when they give.
Now, a candy feels
like a trap.
Love feels like a deal.
And the world?
Too heavy
for joy to be simple.

I am the
farthest
geese,
mingling
over
mountains
but when
my
emotions
descend,
I flatten
into a
plateau.

You already carry
enough to be believed,
Your heart tastes like
strawberries and
listens like a god.
Your blood keeps you
from rusting and  
clears cobwebs within.
Your bones keep
your daring steps
from stumbling.
Your eyes have
the power to soak
uncertainties.
Your skin lets
you love.
Your wit helps
you continue.

What more can
they ask of you?

A duo of
parrots
has been
fluttering
they’ve
made my
  room a stage.
Their wings
flap like
applause.
Everyone
calls it
sweet
I call it
performance.
I reject how
loud,
visible,
and simplistic
their love seems.
I don't like love
that performs in
daylight,
I want a love
that’s curtained
and cryptic.

My heart
crumbles
  and offers
itself
to you
for feed,
for love,
for sanity
so you
feel full,
because you
want a life,
not just
survival.

Last night,
 meant to
loosen
the bulb
I wrapped
my hands
in woven
cloth, and
coaxed the
moon down
instead
It creaked,
blushed,
and fainted
slipped into
my palm,
like a lover.

Waves of the
sea
smeared my
sweat
on its skin,
making
me a single unit
my effort,
my ache,
Lost in
something endless.
I gave the shore
my heat,
my hum,
my salt.

It is that time of year
when the sky and
I forget we
were part of the
same clock.
The sun passes like
a stranger,
brushing past me
no warmth,
no pause.
The moon does not
show me her inner
blush, dark pink
blemishes of light.
The rainbow leaves
beneath the meadow
before I begin
to wonder.
I feel unmoored
Like a tide swelling
forward, unsure
if it’s coming to rest
or could be turned
away again.
There’s fog in my
mind, and birds
sleep on my
neural wires.
no power.
no clarity.

I’ve been to Shawell
by whispering soft
syllables of vowels,
There, I met a
girl of Gumps—
who led me down
to shadowed dumps.
I came back bearing
quite a few lumps.
She wore pink baby
florets, woven through
her sunny hair,
carried a basket
of twins asleep,
an apple, a jug of milk,
and clothes, with an
umbrella—for the rain.
Twas a night of
strange old “oohs,”
and still—I rose
on my pointed toes.
I bruised her lips
like breath on glass—
two shadows still,
where time won’t pass.
I woke with tears I
couldn’t name—
and dreamed again,
but not the same.

Soon after being
struck by
the wind and
your wayward love—
The doors of my
heart opened
Like a double-sliding
window.
I inhaled too sharply —
and the shards came in
with the air.

A tree never
weeps at night.
The birds
   are coming—
Too eager,
Too heavy.
The grass
beneath
sleeps,
still and
silent.
The fruits are
surfacing,
slow and sweet.
It breaks down
at dawn—I see
geriatric leaves
falling,
In the middle
of everything.
A tree can’t
cry, instantly like
human with
freedom—
Only the leaves,
that endured
Too much,
fall on time.
They dry beneath
stars, and by morning,
crumble, golden
at the root.
The grass leans
inward,
Its blades curled
Like a listener
carrying the weight
of someone
else’s grief.
              
🌳🌳

The smallest things
in the world wait
to contribute—  
seeds of thoughts
pressed in my heart,
holding forests
in their sleep.
I see the hand still
clenched, in the crib
its neck craning
like a pigeon’s
over the ledge,
as if the whole
world is waiting
below.

Love demands
openings,
tender ruptures—
And I’m too raw
to receive them.
I hover myself
to keep
from falling—
Like blocks,
stacked in silence,
each part of me
resting on the next.
One wrong shift,
and I could unravel.
So my body
learned
not to split open
for want.

The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.

🌸🍁

Loving you was
like sowing a seed
  in sea sand—
soft, vast, and never
meant to grow.

Could the sea swallow
what the heart offers?

We lose our true selves—
no longer misted like a morning bud—
the thickened, tangled relationships
bury seeds inside our faith,
turning it dark.

—this is the quiet inheritance of womanhood.

The womb creates the
bones so does the grave.

The flesh — is only
borrowed.

Love and hatred descend
in a hierarchy, unraveling
from above—where sun
and moon once kissed,
and love began.

  The sky wrote love—
before we could name it

Your soul keeps returning,
even in death—like sea
remnants brought back
by restless waves...

    Grief comes like the
   sea—never done,
never dry.

We can't know the sea's
depth without the swim,
Nor gauge tomorrow's
progress until it's lived.

Everything reveals
itself—in motion.