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.

The eclipse — a meditation

that night
on the rooftop
we stood
watching the eclipse

the darkness
growing darker
wrapped its arms
around us
as your fingers
found mine
and held onto them

your eyes
brighter than the stars
hanging above us
reassured me
that the moon
was coming back

The burial — a meditation

Remember when we buried
your grandma’s
dusty seashells
in your garden
and you said
if we watered them
for a week
and ocean would grow
out of the ground?
I remember how we
woke up to the sound of seagulls
gathered on the grass,
and we ran to the window
in your eyes,
I saw
the unwavering light
of hope.

The chase — a meditation

Remember when
we met
for the first time
and you asked
“What’s your name?”
then when I answered
you snatched it
right out of my mouth
and I chased you
the neighborhood
until we both
couldn’t breathe any more?

Lightning storm — a meditation

On stormy nights,
when the ailing sky
wails and whines
outside my door,
I remember how
you’d walk out
onto the balcony,
catch the threads
of lightning,
and pull them
out of the clouds
to relieve them
of the rain
that pains them.
And I remember how
you’d weave
those strands
into a curtain
to hang
over our bedroom window
so I could sleep
through the storm.

Afternoons — a meditation

that summer
morning when
we played barefoot
in your backyard
until we were so tired
that we fell asleep
in the shade
of the trees?

Every day since then
I’ve hoped
that maybe
we’re still asleep
on that cool grass,
and our mothers
are about to wake us up
for lunch.