Rambling Roads 🏵

I watched you die slowly. Forced to bear witness, as the life was sucked from your delicate branches, a helpless spectator as your shiny silver blades turned brittle and brown. One by one the limbs were infected, amber droplets oozed sap rushed to soothe the cuts but nothing could heal the fatal wound that happened when no one was watching. No compost or care could mend this turn of fate. A skirt of rust lay scattered and lifeless on the ground. One day I knew the battle was over. Accepted the rich humus would become fertile soil for the next set of roots to sink their fingers into. Bowed to nature’s incessant drive to recycle, the wisdom of oxygen and worms. Even our own cells are slowly replacing themselves until we are no longer the same as before. Musing on the 52 year cycle of the Aztecs, a revolving world requiring constant sacrifice and rebirth, I solemnly fetched the saw from the dark tomb of the garage. Hot tears streamed...

Soft cotton candy clouds lift my eyes to the sky open a pathway above me untethered so I can feel the space between the atoms light as air kindred spirits calling me to ride the song of birds out of my skin let go of gravity pulling down on me become the laugh, the moment of ecstasy back arched chest bare heart pounding. There is nothing else but this.

Cicatrices permiten que la piel se cure, pero dejan rieles bajo que no se quitan. Rastros que cuentan una historia aun cuando no quieres escucharla y muchas veces no puedes entenderla. Así nacen las leyendas, y soy una heroína resistente. Entonces, te aviso... si me tocas allí, prepárate para los sonidos que salen. No se mueve como antes. Tiene su propio ritmo que me sorprende a mí igual que a ti. Pero tengo que seguir el paso que me da. El camino que abre adelante se puede cerrar    en cualquier momento             como el mar rojo,             y no quiero ahogar.             Ya es hora             levantarme             y seguir mi destino.             Aun si tengo que cojear.

There are ghosts all around me.   Wings of angels flutter against my skin-         tissue paper butterflies reminding me you are still here. A salty wave of joy washes over me         melting dream to reality.         I cringe at the familiar prick of pain,         bleeding watercolors, jagged lines. Suddenly I’m aware of the helpless gesture of my hand         cradling my belly,         uneasy home of both womb and tomb. Desperate, I search for signs of your footprints around me,         and my eyes fall on the subtle sway         of an empty rocking chair on the porch. I lift my eyes yearning for clues in the shapes of clouds         but a ...

She loves the crunch of the grounds as she counts out the scoops of coffee.   The bitter aroma wakes up her senses as it wafts up from the thick glass container she unlocks with a satisfying click.   Her pores open up as if to soak in every aspect of this gift: the darkness, the quiet, the morning.   The whole day is placed temporarily on hold, waiting eagerly right around the corner with the tip hinged delicately on her. Balanced precariously on the edge of the next tap. Nothing else waits for her.   Not the alarm attached firmly to her wrist that rips her from sleep at 5:00 each morning and sends her pounding heart into her throat.   Not the vague sense of nausea as she debates the prism of ways she could handle various disputes at work nor the finality of having to deal with them.   Not the bound up angst of 75 teenage bodies waiting in their desks at school each day looking to her for direction.   Nor her own small children with their endles...