Hidden Groves

May the wind hold me for I am feeling quite tired. Perhaps it will carry me home into the grove filled with flowers and lay me down to sleep for a while. I have opened my chest and have let its contents spill out with sharp red rubies hoping that only good will come about.

May the sun come and dry away the cool rains that have woken me up from this charade.


Morning Reverie

It is in the last falling drop of rain that I remember the reasons between transitions. The last few molecules are the ones that mix between the coolness of the water and the warmth of the sun finally starting to peek through the clouds. It is those dissipating pieces of fluff that connect you to the world above and that one below all within the layers of the atmosphere—so think…which route will you take?


Many of these moments are combined with tantalizing thoughts of what is and what has been, thoughts of what will be quietly hidden away in the breaths that I take. I find myself waiting for a lightning strike to shake me into action. I find myself seeking out fast-moving clouds in a late morning sky where all that you see is gray and movement even though you know the sun should have been visible by now. It is I who waits like the hydrated ground while the raindrops falling from the leaves gently pummel my surface like a persistent knock at my door—the truth is waiting to get in.

Wishing for Rain

I don’t take drastic measures, they must seem that way. I only take measures to reach what I hope to achieve. Last year I learned when I should cut back the ill growth of this fragrant rose bush that I am trying to cultivate. I have already learned this year when to let go of leaves that are meant to fall. For the greater good, I make choices because there is no point in holding on to thinly dangling foliage. I have also been in the process of learning how to fertilize and in learning when it is necessary to cut back excessive growth–My roots dig in deeper into this rich soil. It is all love in this horizon; it’s just that love sometimes might hurt a little in some places. I hope I have the willpower to heed the words of the wise and the courage to stand alone as I cultivate this Golden Celebration.

Sunken Benches

I sit next to the ocean that is reclaiming the land and the rain starts to sweep in between the mangroves and dead fish. Soaked pages take in the tears of the sky as if they’ve been parched for quite some time. The ocean and sky have reclaimed their original place on land and floating aimlessly– a red jacket. The dyed red leather is engorged with salt-water while crabs laugh at that foolish girl in tatters.

Field of Red Roses

And the raindrops hit the palm leaves

They’re like the smooth, long faces of the

Warriors resting during battle

You know…

When they cry in mourning of all that has been lost.


They have been winning the battle,

But losing the war.


The sun shone again with a false promise of drying out the running water

But the warriors know they must get back on the field

And fight.


The palm fronds turn yellow with the light of the sun.

Then they turn reddish brown

–The warriors have lost the battle now too.

Spell It Out In the Grass

Live your life as if it were the rivers nourishing the ground
Feel yourself pouring down the stones, moulding them to infinity
Let your waters caress the roots of their shame.
Feel yourself become the May showers bringing fortune to their realms
And remember that when you have evaporated you will come pour down again
Waiting to form the fog obscuring all negatives that before you came.
Let yourself fall down and invigorate this planet with the scents of your roses
Remembering and reminding the power flowing through your petals
As you fall down from grace make them believe they have won this game.