Category: Poetry

When I landed
in the present
the grass was waist-high,
woven with yellow,

Come down,
Every ounce of you is filled with fire
See, through tears
Tattered hands receive you

It is true that to a certain extent
that we know ourselves
through the eyes of others..

In the imprint of receded tides
new topographies reveal
replenished pools
of orange stars…

In the roots
circles are closing
like tears after dark
in winter
in the park…