love is not a vacuum
love reaches in

a hand to wipe the sweat from your face
a word of encouragement

a poem on your lips
a listening ear

a gift of laughter
to laugh at yourself.

I cleared all the rubble,
turned it to mulch,
a soft bed for blooming
above my chest,
behind my ribs.
A garden grows
where grief once rooted,
touched by morning sun
and the warmth
of summer’s start.

Something gentle
is growing in me.

Life has to be lived
with some tension
lest it begins to sag
and reduces a person

for to rise above
the mundane
one can't afford
to be complacent

look at genius
and people with passion
for the highest they pitch
in every season

observe how
they embrace every moment
as though it's an epiphany
lest its. beauty be stolen

I find myself here
Under the sycamore rain,
Again, loving you.

The sky rumbles.
The smell of rain
comes through
as it drops ten degrees.
A wall of droplets
covers the open
greenhouse,
just after the caladiums
and the English ivy,
posted nicely
on symmetrical tables.

The wind dances
with the tall trees.
I can barely hear myself think
or talk
God is angry today.
Lightning strikes.

Arturo,
this 5’6” Hispanic old man,
acts as if he’s scared.
“Ay ay ay,” he says,
as he looks at me laughing.
We all sit,
waiting
for the sudden rage
to stop.

The roof
becomes a drumline,
each beat heavier
than the last.

Arturo crosses himself.
A silence blooms
between thunderclaps,
and in it,
I catch myself wondering
about the things
we don’t speak of,
how laughter
can be a kind of prayer.

I wish for coffee,
as if warmth
might steady the world.

The rain doesn’t ask
for permission to soften.
It just does.

My lovely marigold,
With orange blooms,
In the mist of summer
I found you, hiding
Beneath the shade
Of a great oak
As the waves of wind
Spoke in sonnets
And stirred the tall grass.

It was so easy to find you then.
But now you hide
Beneath cold stones,
Letting your roots grow
Without me.

Still, I’ll wait
Against the trunk
Until sunset
Falls asleep to the breeze,
Hoping to wake
Curled in your arms
While the last stars
Flicker above.

Amor mío, mi alma
fuera de mi cuerpo,
te sientes como el
sol mañanero
tras una noche oscura,
tormentada.

Tu sonrisa
se asoma en tus ojos,
tu perfume se arrastra
por la almohada,
se queda pegado
como chicle.

Cuando me despierto
y no estás a mi lado,
me comeré las migajas
de ti
con una taza de café.

Muchos no entenderán
cuánto te anhelo,
desafiantes,
contra una
corriente.