Dear Universe, why 

Is it that you made me a poet? 

Is it that you see me here 

Writing homework with my eyes 

Constantly straying to the snow falling 

Outside the window I have curled beside, 

Constantly resisting the urge to 

Write history into poetry with 

Metaphors perhaps too pretty 

For the purpose of my writing? 

Is it that you realize I

Know things that I know

Are not true knowledge? I

Know the stars are not freckles

Of the night’s face, and yet

I know that for poets it is the

Undeniable truth that there 

Are always wildflowers for those who

Want to see them; they

Are blooming from our hearts and

Will always be seen in the cracks

We see blossoming from this earth;

You have at your fingertips thousands

Of dreamers; you

Have in fact filled your universe

With them, a requirement

For a ticket to Earth, and yet

You have chosen me to

Muse constantly about how

Every one of my words is a shout

Into a void in which I will always hope

Has stars scattered through to

Make me feel that my insignificance is

Significant; 

Universe, I know I am one, but

Why is it that you

Made me a poet?

Winter signed the eviction notice 

In a language the tiles already understood 

Its quiet weight leaning into 

The dusty corners of the apartment 

Spring’s vines rehearse their grip 

Around the polyester furniture 

As warmth learns the shape of the doorway 

The air remembering what it held 

Winter leaves behind a freedom 

That doesn’t ask for permission

The cold knew exactly which chair was mine

And kept every promise of rent

Bluebirds loiter at the windowsills

And tulips interrupt the dry soil

Spring signs its name over the lease

While winter practices how to be a ghost

I did not prepare for

Winter’s abrupt resignation

From every obedient crack and curtain

The warmth does not ask if I am ready

Only if I am willing

Some seasons leave before

We understand why they stayed

I wish I could go, 

I wish I could see, 

I wish I could feel 

The wonders of Victoria Falls, 

The greatest scene in all of Africa. 

Far from the shore of Zambia,

A mile of water runs down the jagged rocks.  

It hits the pool and mist sprays everywhere. 

A fresh warm scent glides through the air, 

Whilst the thunderous sound full of zen falls below. 

I wish I could watch the water fall from the ledge, 

As it crashes below to a watery phantasm. 

So I dream of this place, true and untamed,

And soon I hope to follow the call of the wild.