Writing

I always come back to

the synchrony I find in the wild 

The insignificance I feel

when the rain pours down

Giving breath to growth

The birds are all singing, differently

from one another

I learned to cry without my eyes turning red

Letting tears run down my face

Silence can be agony

I cover up my tears with a smile pasted on for all to see

But no one sees me

I put on a mask

My tears turn into snowflakes 

Cold and so complex

Freezing my skin black

For the sin of feeling sad

The cold is punishment

There were two children in summer who would walk everyday, when the moon was right, across the sandbar to the kissing trees. They walked with hair that disguised them from above as moving dots of blonde sand.

a few days ago

i ran home from the bus stop

soaked through and shivering

under a thunderous sky

my thoughts dissolving into rain

lightning pulsing in the air

threading through the coarse strands

The flowers died on a Monday.