The sunbather — a meditation

All morning I watched
a thin arm
of sunlight
pick its path
between branches
until it finally
rested its warm fingers
on your leg.

Then I gazed
into the perspiration
glistening on your thighs
until I saw visions
of your future:
You have beautiful children.

And while you sunbathed,
I connected
all your moles
with invisible lines
then colored in
all the animals
it revealed on your skin.
And now that I’ve named
every freckle
on your face
I can get up
to fold the laundry.

Marbles — a meditation

Remember how we
raced to the garden
to escape
the boredom
of the living room?
And when we
were done playing
they would make us
wipe our feet
on the mat
so that we don’t bring
any crazy ideas
back inside,
but you always
had some marbles
in your pocket
you crazy, crazy girl.

Window sill — a meditation

they compete,
five birds
in the tree.
They rhyme
to the rhythm
of 4/3.

And two
butterflies float
as if dancing
to the song,
they fall and rise
with every note.

All along I sit
quietly the window,
in a square patch
of sun,

on a sofa for one.

Grandpa’s death — a meditation

On the morning of the last day,
he woke up and saw death
blocking the doorway.
They wrestled each other
to the bedroom floor,
where my frail, fearless grandfather
was eventually defeated,
in patch of sunlight
on the marble.

He left in a hurry, my grandpa,
taking nothing with him
and leaving behind no last words.
He had just enough breath left
to say goodbye
but no one was there.
We thought
that death would come
in the night,
like all the thieves do,
but death crawled in
in the morning
and we weren’t there.

Wallpaper — a meditation

In my grandmother’s house,
old and dark and dusty,
I would walk
the long corridor
with my eyes closed,
running my fingers
softly along the rough
wallpaper, like a needle
on a vinyl record,
and i swear to you
I could hear the sound
of my mother,
my aunts and uncles,
laughing as they played,
each in their own childhood,
before the dust came in
and the darkness settled
on the furniture.

Hilltop — a meditation

It’s the first day
of my autumn.
I find myself on a hilltop
alone like I’ve always stood.
The breeze whispers
in my ear
words I don’t want to hear.
The sun’s rays,
warm on my skin,
warm like my mothers’s
love should’ve been.
The sun’s rays fall
on the solitary trees.
The breeze
shakes their branches,
shedding their past leafs
as they stand waiting for
the promised rebirth.