Mother’s fingers are stained with orange peels.
She stands by the kitchen and offers me orbs;
She wants me to live a hundred years more.
Mirrors are painful, my face is too round.
In harsh winter, cheeks blossom
and soften into hers, whose face I love.
I carry her as she carried me
inside her belly, a little orange tree.
For as many years I’ll live,
I will brave through the winter
a quiet reminder
that I am
my mother’s daughter.
what is the word?
hands in your hair
others – ah it’s
Speaking of poets
like old friends, I must meet your
Slate blue eyes, adorned with coral
you see beyond the mundane,
capturing light as it skims the leaves,
iridescent clouds, effervescent memories
in shadowy towers and age-old palaces.
Attentive to whispers of feeling:
Timmy is watering the flowers-
maybe something is blossoming
People like you are pockets of goodness,
strong, as nothing erodes it.
You land softly onto my shoulder
and teach me how to be lovely.