January 6, 2020

• three languages

  unaccustomed sunlight,  flutter
  of a stray snowflake wavering in the cold ...

  my first house was built on shadows,
  the second was built on the day's last breath.

  darkness resided in the hand-dug well,
  a cylinder of green coolness

  and rain scampered on the sheet-metal roof
  telling stories my children loved to hear.

  my third house was built on an oriole's last moment
  of daydreams. my reflection celebrated loneliness;

  beauty was the sadness of impermanence
  barely concealed by the dying light.

  among the trees that rustle through
  the night's saltiness,

  there are three languages: sound, smell,
  and forgetfulness.

  all of my houses have been makeshift rooms
  of fleeting dreams

  lost among footsteps engraved on dust.
  i have followed a dream that has eluded me

  on a road winding through
  a patch of globe thistles

  severing the wind to pieces

  • 5:58 am
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