I wish we never met
Even if fate led us there.
I wish we never talked
Even if the words came easy.
I wish we let silence win
Even if the conversation pulled us in.
I wish we never saw the signs
Even if they glowed so bright.
I wish we never felt that spark
Even if it burned so right.

But everything happened
And still, I wish I could turn back time
Even if I would never know you at all.

The flower needs rest,
so winter tucks it beneath the earth,
letting it sleep until spring.

The sun needs rest,
so the clouds and rain embrace it,
shielding its warmth for another day.

you rip apart the seams of this family
you are a hurricane and we are the destruction in your wake
you are a wildfire and we are burned
you are an earthquake but you aren't the one rattled
you have caused mass destruction and singed everyone you touched
you hate us
you natural disaster

a circle,
              (closed).

arms reach,
stretch,
but never
quite
touch.

    infinity spins  
                round —  
      no end, no start,  
                  but always moving.  

everything and nothing,
twirl,
dance —
a waltz of wisp and weight.

light glows,  
              soft, gentle,  
                         (but distant).  

the edges blur —
you almost see it,
almost touch it—
                                  but then it's gone,
                                              slipping —

           through cracks.  

completion?
or is it
just a loop —

                   a never-ending spiral?

    your place is here,  
                                        (but not yet).  
                   not yet.  

  the world,  
                  the world —  
         is beyond,  
                       above,  
                   inside.  

in every step,
                       every breath —
is the world.

                   you can see it.  
                   (you almost touch it.)  
     but it’s already gone.  

(it was never there.)  

    but you are.  

      spinning.  
             forever
                   waiting.

The pears
bend the
crooked branches—
flushed
and drowsy
with sugar.

The juice waits
for something—
for its skin
to be bruised
for a mouth
to bite in
and when done
waiting—
suffer the wind
do what must
be done.

When the Moon is a Rose bouquet
With a garden of loving stars
Love is a Cabaret

Reynaldo Casison