Poetry

I’m currently being serenaded by hammering from my mom’s bedroom upstairs. They're still working on that bathroom. You know, the one that was supposed to be done last month.

Well, two months ago, actually.

Pride of bovine kind

Wanderer of the mountains 

None could best a yak

Summer is just around the corner

And I can feel it.

I can feel it in the trees' blossoms under my fingertips,

Every dandelion I pick for a crown that always droops,

In how the mud sinks into my shoes,

I talked to a tree just the other day, I was walking past and it did say,  

Well, what are you? 

Just a traveler. 

But what are you? 

Why, a human, of course, you didn’t know? 

Each of you fluffy white 

clouds 

each of the shapes inspire me I look up into you 

and feel small and big at the same time

It's spring again 

It's sunny again 

It's green and flowers are taking over again

It's warm and the birds are singing again

It's spring again 

Everything is coming out of hibernation again

I’m a blank sheet, a book unwritten,

A sponge, as dry and brittle as the desert,

ready to soak up my surrounding,

no matter what it is, no biases,

I’m so busy now,

Even when I’m not, I’m busy,

Online, scrolling mindlessly, thoughtlessly,

Deeper and deeper into the well,

I used to walk into a theater and it was salvation.

Stage lights and people who filled up a room, 

I was happy to watch them for hours.

I wanted to become some part of that

some part of the instant admiration

Good morning, sunlight like syrup

Touching every dew-streaked blade

Of grass and puddle of drying mud.

Good morning, air that smells of spring,

Air that sounds

if feelings are fluid then so is

the way you run your hands through your hair halfway out of your braid

your breath against my neck since you don't want others to hear

the statue of liberty was brown once, an unprepared American girl blistering in the sun as if our Constitution has torn sharp green papercuts into her skin.