They say the world was once dry.
No rivers split the land. No lakes gathered in valleys. No rain ever kissed the soil. The earth was quiet, and the sky above it colder still.

Then came the First Mourner.

No one remembers their name. Some say it was a woman who lost her child. Others say a man, left behind by a village that forgot him. Some say they weren’t man or woman at all, but simply the first soul to carry grief too large for the body that held it.

Alone beneath a sky that did not know feeling, the First Mourner fell to their knees and wept.

One tear, then another, and another—until the ground beneath them softened. The soil drank deeply. The sky, curious, watched.

This was a new thing: sorrow.

Moved by this strange sound—the hitching of breath, the trembling hands—the sky tried to answer. But the sky did not know how to weep. So it watched. It waited. And it learned.

And when the Mourner's final tear fell, a spring bubbled forth where their grief had sunk deepest. It sang gently, like a lullaby hummed to no one. And the sky, trembling with this strange new knowing, let fall a single drop of rain.

That was the first covenant.

For every true sorrow shed by humankind, the sky would return a drop of rain. Not as punishment, but as an echo. Not to drown, but to nourish.
And so the lakes formed. The rivers wandered. The oceans, deepest of all, came from grief shared across generations—wars, famines, partings too large for one voice alone.

The world wept with us, and in this we were not alone.

But sorrow, like all things, changed.

In time, humans no longer wept from love or loss alone. Their sadness became tangled in wanting—more, faster, again. They wept for things they hadn’t lost, or things they never had. They learned to sell their sorrow, to rehearse it, to package it in song and screen and market. They cried in chorus without meaning a note.

The sky, still faithful, tried to respond.

It poured down rain onto lands that did not need it. It soaked the hungry with flood and left the earnest dry. It became confused. Where once it had known the shape of sorrow, now it only heard noise.

The waters turned.

Oceans rose not from mourning, but from error. The rivers changed course. Some vanished. Some boiled. Rain fell without rhythm, or not at all. The world, overwhelmed, began to dim.

They say the sky tries not to listen now. That it closes its eyes when it hears us speak. That the wells are drying because the grief we give them cannot be trusted.
And where once fire was rare, now it walks freely across the land—because there are no honest tears left to hold it back.

But not all have forgotten.

There are still those who feel sorrow, and do not turn it into spectacle. Who weep alone, without audience or applause. Who rise—not to perform, but to mend.
They do not beg the sky to stop crying. They do not curse the flood.
They walk where the water has receded and begin again.

They pull weeds. They clean wounds. They carry buckets.

They speak to children in low tones. They listen to the old without impatience. They do not sell their mourning. They do not bottle their grief.

The world watches them—warily, quietly, hopefully.

And when they pass beneath the clouds, the rain waits.
Not because it is confused.
But because, for once, it remembers why it ever fell.

Even something distant
Can give enough light,
Longer than just a while,
Carrying vivid, tender moods,
Rising like green plants,
Despite the cold, acid rain.

A hypnotic, sweet mantra,
A grateful murmur,
Whispered my true name,
Coming on time,
Before I closed the door.

I am at home now.
In a quiet zone,
On my piece of uneven,
Creaky floor,
Grounded by gravitation,
Free from messy thoughts,
Just to save the plumb line,
Not to collapse inward
Into an inner gap
Of what it should mean.

I shift my wardrobe
Of emotional scripts
To clean a tame mess,
Collected into short breaths,
Like colorful, sharp stamps,  
Justifying a fading reason to stay,
rather than give up and go away.

Yes, I know that I can.
So, what am I afraid of?
That I am ready
To drop the weight
Of past attachment,
To feel the lightness
Of being loved?
To accept human warmth,
Enfolding peacefully
A fractured existence.

It feels like an unseen field.... a constant tension,  a rush of more tension, the acceleration of looking and seeing desire, the spiral of pulse, a void full of everything. as if I can sense with an imaginary skin some  thoughts screaming in your smile. they are blue riders on weightless nights, they roam the dunes of time. I think of you, hooked by a mystery that will never be solved

to make you fall asleep
like a bird in its nest,
I’ll hold all the
summer rains in my
arms
just for you
I’ll carry all
summer rains, I will
carry them in
my
arms,
like a heart on fire

water shines like dreams that mystify their depth
in nights without moon by the sea the solitude of breath is even stronger
a savage sea feeds on the memory of light, but only the sand carries its age
its black heart rumbles a white rage
a watery path their dreams, they travelled by sea or the surface of time
they envisioned us perhaps
in the randomness of waves

the breaking edge of waves consumes me
wind, sand, water, light meet
in the love story of a time
surfing its waves

I still believe in euphoria,
Just like I believed in you, for ya.
I was making love with your idea,
With bursting passion, a complete aria.

Healing takes time, they say.
Now it is high time I went on with this day:
Finally being present, taking time to smell the leaves of bay,
I dare say, the infinite maze finally paid.

silence swings over waters as if...
it rehearses its unseen so...
to fill  in the depth of blanks
a stratified time inhabits the landscape
orphic dreams morph into your flesh
the wind collates its courage and rage
like someone who falls into a self
my words bite the shape of a scream
the hunger of love descends language into crumble
the beauty of lungs full of air is misleasing
when I am waiting for silence to miscarry its void

I do not love you
like a traveler loves a view—
I love you
like a secret loves silence,
like depth craves depth.

You are not just water—
you are emotion in motion,
a hymn sung by moonlight,
a soul with salt and storm
in your veins.

I love how you breathe
without needing anyone to notice.
How your tides rise and fall
without shame,
how your waves hold both peace
and power.

I love that you rage
when the sky grows cruel,
that you speak in roars
when you're no longer heard.

You are not just blue—
you are every feeling
I’ve ever buried,
every tear the world
never saw me cry.

And I,
fragile yet fierce,
quiet yet alive,
found in your vastness
a mirror.

I do not visit you.
I return to you.
For in your depths,
I remember—
I am made of wild things too.

you light a match
the flame forgets
I close my eyes
echoes pass through us
I can't tell, is it
a mirror or a door
we are suspended in shapes
that keep on crying

Mortgage-bruised pilgrims
linger along Silver Strand,
pop caps against plywood boarding,
edges furred with salt-rust flakes
from storms that chewed the pier.

Seabee retirees
swap tide updates on porch steps;
third-generation surfers
stitch wax into their palms
and still call this south jetty 'church'.

Here my son and I rinsed sand
from our ankles with a garden hose,
him shrieking, laughing, shivering
when cold bit his feet.

I once yelled at him, raging
for dropping keys into surf,
as if that mattered more
than a day of chasing, wrestling in the tide.
He doesn’t remember.
I can’t forget.

Now, he’s taller than me,
vanishing downshore.

I stand outside, voices rise
in the salt-hard wind.
Barbecue smoke drifts
from driveways, tailgates,
settles into dusk-lit lawn chairs.

Boarded bungalows peel to raw board,
splintering porch rails;
nails weep orange along the grain.

A bike frame, chainless,
reddens into memory beside dune grass
still gripping sand.

There is grace in forgetting:
a tide lowers its voice,
sand swallows what was said.