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.

Pearls are born in turmoil
within oysters—so is love.

Though you’re but a
single drop of rain,
Your presence ripples
through the world—
You rise with the mist,
form clouds above
darkness and carve
rivers below hope,
stir oceans and tides,
sculpt glaciers and
awaken springs,
nourish lakes and
swell the seas.

You are part
   of something vast—
  alone, yet whole.

Love reveals our
bare selves—like
the full moon, clear
and veritable.

The sky convulses,
a star plummets, plunges
into the earth, and is gobbled
up by the soil— leaving
no signs of vitality
or decay.

The scars on her body seem
to leech the dopamine from
her veins― She felt that pain
is the residue of joy.

An infantile urge to
stretch a bedsheet
and pull to reach a
toy just out of grasp
—a manifestation
of adult anxiety.

You don't know
where the kite goes.
You just have to
let it ride.

Breath finds its
way to the ribs.
How do we draw
love near?

Sometimes, it feels like
words have become
extinct dinosaurs,
Like the earth has
already sunk them
deep.

A mother's womb,
Like a ripe field,
yields fruit.

- a newborn.

I yearn for a lotus leaf
drifting and merging
with waters that gently
flow into a sacred grove,
where paths route
to heaven.