From the minute we’re born,
to the moment we die,
our lives are a fistful of unanswered whys.
The loss of a loved one, through distance or death.
The passions we feel that steal our breath.
The stars way above us, both hidden and seen.
The seabed below us and all in between.
From the minute we wake,
til the moment we sleep,
we ponder the secrets that providence keeps.
In majesty she came to be our mother.
I lionize her,
for she was a lioness.
Yes.
But we, the three cubs of her Pride
no longer linger by her side.
And yet, we still lope in her shadow.
Dawn will be here in a blink.
For now, the sky is black as ink.
The snow stopped falling hours ago,
the earth is white — the west wind blows.
A chill creeps in from window cracks.
I feel its talons at my back.
My baby slumbers by my side,
but soon her mouth will open wide,
to greet the morning with a cry.
Stay close my love — the light is nigh.
Like an unwelcome birthday, twilight breaths
down our necks. At Ashikaga we float, two
hopeful buds amongst hundreds, flowers of
a different kind.
Purple, mauve, lilac, pink, blinding white.
Colors of our daydreams projected into the
universe that lies outside of us.
Threads of yesterday, perfectly preserved in
pictures, pave the way for tomorrow’s
celebrations.
Do you remember Summer 2020? Do you
remember how we screamed and cheered,
with our babies on our laps, for Kaya Kazuma
when he won bronze at the Tokyo Games?
You don’t? Well, I do.
Wisterian hues fold and unfold us, make and
remake us, keeping us honest, keeping us
focused and true to ourselves.
And yet, I remember much that never was.
The manacles of this virus, long have they reigned,
gradually rust and come undone, falling away
to reveal restless and ready hands.
I remember for both of us.
Daring to be brilliant, regal even, though it
is known that our blooms burst for but a
brief time.
plum trees
never ask why,
when the deities please,
their buds, in the blink of an eye,
must die
Obedient rows of tiny white cherries sail
in a violet sea; I can see the fabric of her
dress, but not her face.
Never her face.
The length of her hair changes, sometimes
curly, sometimes straight or wavy, yet always
a gingerbread brown.
In the distance, almost within reach, she slumbers
deeply, waiting to be born.
Basil-laced strawberries swim in two quarts of water,
replacing yesterday’s battered, bloated limes with grace.
Tonight, they too, will be discarded like a pair of
sweaty socks, surrendering in defeat.
Skaters, daters, bikers, and hikers
weave freely in and out of one another, stuffing
the last of the capsizing light into their hungry souls,
before Hrímfaxi’s hoary mane hovers above the horizon.
Rose eyelids are warm with salt of the sorrow that seeps through my skin.
Burning, tender and fierce, is somehow felt when no other sensation is known.
Where does the blanket end?
Where do I begin?
The day is dark though the light be laughing,
laughing at me for bowing to despair.
If there is hope, I know not where.
The sun decamps as we march here.
You lend your heart, I lend my ear.
Rich tangerine and scarlet dames
command the field with docile flames.
As we are humbled by their grace,
lush lilac looms on heaven’s face.
The moon reports as we halt here.
I lend my heart, you lend your ear.
The ladies’ gowns have been concealed
and diamonds bright have been revealed.
Your mouth unfurls; I see a smile.
Let’s linger now, for just a while.
The weight of those black keys in this palm-sized bingata
pouch never amounted to very much, yet they opened
worlds more abundant than Witwatersrand.
Gazing at such delicate flowers, dyed in orchid and amethyst,
our all-too-short afternoons waltz upon my mind; I smile at the
memory of the blithe and innocent spirit that you so lovingly
shared with me.
An empty floral pouch, coconut and pear lip balm (only used once),
Band-Aids (only used twice), antibacterial hand wipes, and alcohol
prep pads – fragments of a broken bond, bespoken by no one.
sundry folly 