almond croissant washed down with a
cold cup of water and thoughts
wandering wondering what's

beyond

I'm halfway
out of the door, but
please don't
close it
just yet.

I tried missing you and wondered why
I healed so quickly.
Then six o'clock struck and I realized
how
wrong
I
was.

I've been
waiting seven centuries for you to
meet me halfway
keeping a close eye on the movements of the planets when
all I had to do was to
spin a hundred and eighty degrees.

it's not safe where you're going, I
whisper to the pregnant woman carrying her
grocery bags walking
towards the railways, she
probably knows, but
she probably doesn't, and if she doesn't, how would she?

the ones who know never speak up.

I took it and
swallowed my aches down with
three cubes of sugary smiles while
digging up six feet of dirt
shoving it in without a proper funeral, but
now it's come back.

she carries herself as if
she is made of coal
but when she
picks up her pen, she
vomits diamonds, but
they don't shine bright enough for her to see.

sometimes you need to
see the world as if
you're waking up for the
      f
i         r
s
                     t


time.

this morning I realized
how much I
ex
hale
breathing                                          o   ­     u         t
everything my tongue biting hides.

maybe I should start writing my mind.

it's nearer than we think.
we swear under our breaths
and see blisters before they form, but
we just need to pick our feet up
and start
walking.

you haven't changed.

i've no right to say that,
we've only just met, but

you haven't changed.

the sun didn't rise today.
it kissed the earth,
warm and slow
casting a soft tangerine
on the rice fields, while
woodland songs hummed and
grandmothers slept.

waking up is a beautiful thing.

let me be the
wet fleece on
dry ground, may I
hear the sound
of jars breaking

soon.

today I learned that
ships don't sail in if you're
not ready for them.
I'm sorry for leaving you behind.

hot milk + white sugar + chocolate powder + cinnamon +
vanilla powder + a glazed doughnut + white moustache +
stars in his eyes + gray sweater with a tiger that used to be mine
+ hay-like, unwashed hair + corn kernel teeth +
crocodile crocs + carrying that pack of Monopoly Deal cards
even though no one wants to play with you and you're
disappointed but cheer up soon after + the queer shape
of your pink lips + your hands and the way you use
them + gurgling laugh which sounds quite gross but it's
actually really cute + finely shaped ears + soft earlobes
that I like to rub between my thumb and
forefinger + questions + more questions + even more questions +
the way you plant a soft wet goodnight kiss on my
cheek each and every night except for the nights I
come home late, opening the door, turning on your yellow
lamp looking at your small dreaming body wishing you'd
forever stay my brother who makes Christmas in a cup.

dragon’s flames

rubber bands and blank paper sheets

a pair of *****, red sneakers

black and white keys

thick, old books

crumpled paper

a box of paints

pencil shavings

shades of gray

stacks of cds

dog-eared magazines

ancient stuffed toys

newspapers from two months ago

ninja gear and beyblades

a box of keychains

picture-plastered walls

last week’s jeans

yesterday’s jacket

ballpens with no ink

worn out satin slippers

an overused waveboard

loose change and

illustration boards

all found in

my room

Don't fight the thunder when it comes,
let go your brick and brush.
Sop up the graying clouds with
every bit of lung, step
away from your paint.

Your labor
has always been in vain.

Surrender your body to the wind,
trust its wings, trust its landing.
Watch closely
come the tearing of the torrents,
don't be afraid
of what washes ashore.

Allow every strike of lightning,
let your bones shake themselves brittle.
You will not die.
You will not die.

Breathe in the roaring waves,
slowly sink to its depths.
Avoid the struggle if you can,
and let it be so.
Let it be so.

And when all has billowed over,
keep open your eyes
keep open your fists
and know that all this
is where spring begins.

(o, holy night)
sweet carols ring throughout the dark
echoing joyously — warm words
wrap their arms around us
with our hearts aglow
we know that we sing
of mercy and goodness
and fulfilled promises

(the stars are brightly shining)
we dance in peppermint winds
against skies ablaze with colored lights
spinning on the water’s surface
but none shine more brightly
than this dawn breaking in me
for come has the One for whom
this weary world’s been waiting

(it is the night)
the air is thick with symphonies of spices
cars glide past us, eager to make it home
children laugh, there are strangers no more
baby born, God of angels and galaxies
distant no more

(of our dear Savior’s birth)
how beautiful this truth -- that
thrill of hope became tangible in a manger
love itself swaddled in cloth
the cry of this child
broke centuries of silence
His eyes bright with a promise
of all things new and glorious

o, how divine
how divine is this night

they stole it!
mama cried.
it was a gift from Lolo.

we tried to comfort her
with our rough touch and
awkward hugs but
the tears rolled
and mama lay still.

then the baby came in
Lolo, Lolo,
he gurgled.
you want to see Lolo?
let's go visit Lolo,
mama said.

the baby will never see Lolo.
i cried.

If I tell you I love you,
what then?

As much as I'd like to
play with the stardust in your hair
and dance under moonbeams
to our favorite song on repeat,
I know that these are merely dreams.
They will crumble into the
harsh reality of daisies trying to
bloom during the frost
as soon as I grasp them in my palms.

Poets write of forevers and somedays,
but I know that as of this moment, this
will absolutely not
last forever and that someday
is not a day of the week, I'm
doing you a favor, sweetheart.
I've seen the aftermath of too many heartbreaks
and spent too much on buying
boxes of Kleenex for my friends to
even want you.

Whisper all the sweet things you can,
make promises of cottages and
chestnut colored horses, but
we are young and
we are fools.
These hearts are too precious to waste on
someone we can't count on to be there
through the thunderstorms and electricity bills.
We aren't ready for this and
you
know it.

I am saving all
for one day giving all
away, but not yet.
It could be you
it might be you
maybe.
Someday.
Forever?

Maybe someday we'll be forever,
but not today.
If it's you, then

it's you who will be holding my heart delicately
in your palms and it will be
whole.
And you will thank me, because

if I tell you I love you,
(now)
what then?

They'll think the scars on our wrists are
tattoos, and
they wouldn't be wrong.

They wouldn't be wrong.

the rain falls
but I can't write.
the breeze calls
but I can't write.
the dawn sings
but I can't write.
everyone writes
but I can't write.
I can't.

I never thought that
being broken would
paralyze my poetry but

I'm healing.
I'm healing.

My father came home                                                             ­                                                             
wit­h a tube of blue                                                             ­                                                                 ­                    
for me.                                                              ­                                                                 ­                             
Dark as half-past midnight,                                                        ­                                                                
but when purified,                                                        ­                          
as clear as the sky  
and babies' bright eyes.                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                           
I warmed it between my                                                               ­                   
welcoming palms,                                                           ­                       
marveling at the thick, round                                                          
tube that, when squeezed, would come                                                  
opaque oceans                                                           ­                                                 
dazzling eyes                                                             ­                                   
mermaid hair                                                             ­                                 
and dragon scales.                                                          ­                        
                                        ­                                                                 ­                   
Yet this same wonder
held
monster claws
Yeti fur
vampire skin
and hot ice.

It was so
dangerously beautiful
my hands hesitated
to curl its delicate fingers
around this mysterious magic.
But then, I remembered,
I hadn’t unscrewed it.

So, consider this:    
There is a pthalo
to every robin's egg,
An indigo
to every turquoise.
Consider this:
Even the most righteous fall.
Trust no one.
Make no friends.
Love none except yourself.
Never dream.
Never dare.
This ode has just taught you
how to
live life
a sealed
tube of blue.

One day I will wake up
to a clear sky and no lies
breathing the air my grandfathers breathed
singing the songs my ancestors sang
speaking the language of the soil and trees
matching the movement of the great butanding*
proudly proclaiming the land from which I came
not fearing the taunts of the uncolored race
standing as one people
one tribe
one blood
I yearn for this day.
The day that
I wake up
in my Philippines.

My head and my heart
know only one song.

This song has no title
no artist
no album
no genre
unless you consider every person who had ever whispered this song
from cracked lips and dried up throats
or had hummed its tune in monotonous habit until it became nothing
but a humdrum sing-a-long, pass-it-on
religious routine with each letter sounding
outlandishly familiar to something forever etched in their memory.

My mother taught me this song
when I was two years old
because a decade minus eight is the age where you start remembering things like
the shape of your mouth when you’re forming the letter O
how it’s supposed to feel when it’s been struck and
how you’re supposed to not fight back
how you’re supposed to accept that you’re the weak one
how you’re just supposed to always and forever just sing
this one song.

“This
is the song your father
and his father
and his father’s father
and all their grandfathers’ great grandfathers
sang.
This
is the song that began
our end,”
is what my mother told me before she taught me
and before her lips could form the first vowel
before her throat could carry the first syllable
I knew.

I knew that this song
was a fallen hymn
drenched in desperation
its words only there to fill in the deafening silence
and like cheap cement
only meant to repair
but not to mend.
A tune that would put you to sleep
in order for you not to notice
the truth swept up under the rug
A ballad of blood
and ash
enough to fill up your lungs
and flow through your veins until its lies crawled up,
tainted and tattooed your skin
to produce scars for the world to see
scars for the world to label me
and say,
“Ah. She is her mother’s daughter.”

And when my mother finally sang the song,
I could feel the deceit and betrayal electrifying the air
adding to the illusion this twisted symphony
created that this
is the only song we can sing
this
is the only song
we were meant to bring
with us from cradle to grave.
I could hear hatred
notes of ignorance
chords of discord
something was wrong with the harmony
and I cried,
“Change the song!”
My mother sang on.
“Change the song!”
My father started to blend.
“Change the song!”
My grandmother came as a third voice.
“Change the song!”
My grandfather started to tap his feet to the beat.

And I realized that more than three hundred and thirty three years ago
someone had hummed a fa
had pressed a piano key
had written one verse
had been forced to scream out the bridge with chains on their wrists
crevices on their faces left by the tears that ran down the same path
enough times to make riverbeds
had passed the song down to his daughter
and her daughter
and her daughter’s great granddaughters
and had never stopped writing the lyrics since

There was an awkward rest in the song
as if someone had dared to stop continuing
had put the pen down
had tried to write truth instead of lies
but had died with the song of insurgency
and I asked my father whose blood it was
and he answered,
“Someone who asked questions.”
So I asked him who I was
and he answered,
“Nobody.”

But here I stand
here you stand
knowing the truth that has resurfaced
after being smothered by greed and power
century after century
curse after curse
thorn after thorn
I grew up asking questions
and I’m asking them again.
Are you going to be the first one
to erase the words?
Are you going to be the first one
to drown them out with freedom shouts?
Are you going to be the first one
to lay the pen down?
Because if you won’t, then I will
so that one day, my daughters will know
and carry this in their hearts,
Ang  mamatay  nang  dahil  sa  *iyo

Is there a word for the way the heart aches,
the way it longs to be filled,
but nothing on earth will suffice?

Is there a word for that hole
inside
gnawing slowly
then spitting back that
disgusting, chewed up mess
you call a self?

Is there a word for the way you try
to hide the beast inside
and you try so hard
then just watch yourself fall apart?

Is there a word for the feeling
of your soul being one, big
mass of tangled yarn
and you just can't seem to undo the knots?

Is there a word for pain
real pain
the kind that has used up every tear you've got,
is there a word for that pain?

Who knows?
But then again,

Is there a word for the way
realization hits you hard
in the gut
and shakes you by the shoulders
leaving you breathless and gasping?

Is there a word for the way
you hear a whisper in your spirit
that assures you of love
an unending
unfailing
unshakable
love?

Is there a word for that feeling
when you've been found
and are running back
into waiting, open arms?

Is there a word for when your
heart is being mended
and you feel whole
like you've never felt before,
is there a word for that joy?
and that peace?

Who knows?
Maybe someday,
but for now

be still, child.

be still.

coincidence
          is just another word
for doubt

                          every letter was
      carefully placed upon the pages
to shake something


                         so don't worry about
               how the plot will twist
      write the character.

Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen, she said.
Those were the words that
convinced me to write a letter
from a stranger to a stranger.
So this is a message to you
from her.

She's asking how you're doing.
She wonders if the stars are brighter where you are.
You know,
there's a meteor shower coming
in a few weeks' time, she's
she's asking if you knew, and if
you'd watch it with her at eleven in the evening the Saturday after the next
so she'd feel like you were right there beside her
pointing out which streak held the most brilliant color
and if you're asking,
she's doing fine.

She's wondering if you know
how silkworms spin silk,
because a friend asked her the other day
she didn't know how to reply except by telling herself
that you would've known, so
how do they spin silk?
Let me know as soon as possible, she says
my friend wants to know.
But I think she's asking that as an excuse to hear your voice
but also because she really wants to know
how silkworms spin silk
and if you think jade is the nicest kind of green
or if you prefer hiking or swimming
if you agree that innocence is just untested character
and if you're asking,
she's longing for answers.

She's hoping you don't think of her,
and she's hoping you do.
She wants me to tell you that
she wants you to remember
but she wants you to forget the pain,
so might as well forget everything
because hurt is the price of loving someone.
She confesses that she's tried to stop
writing about you
but every time she sits down to
write her soul into words
your memory slips in and dances off her pages
and she tries to stop it
and if you're asking,
she's trying to find ways to make thinking about you easier.

According to her,
she's quieter now
not just her mouth but her feet,
her hair
her eyes
her spirit
Look at what you've done, she says.
I

I've always been a terrible liar.
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen.

I.
Mahal, minsan napapaisip ako...
Ang laki masyado ng mundong ito, ang mundo ko.
Gusto kong hawakan ang bawa't bato, yakapin ang bawa't puno, pero hindi ko kaya dahil nadadala ako sa tinig ng mga iba't ibang boses na humihila sa aking puso at hindi ko alam kung alin ang susundan ko.
Nakaktakot ang katotohanan na marami pang mga lugar na hindi pa natatapakan ng aking paa, marami pa akong hindi alam, marami pa akong hindi nakikita.

Pero minsan, ang katotohanang ito ang nagpapatibok sa aking puso, at nais kong pasukan ang lahat ng mga pintong bumubukas sa harap ko,
nais kong mahalin ang lahat ng taong dumadaan sa buhay ko,
nais kong maranasan ang lahat ng pwedeng maranasan ng isang tao.

Pero minsan talaga, hindi...
Hindi talaga alam ng aking puso kung ano ang gusto nito.
Kung isang mundong malaki o mundong maliit ang gusto niyang tirhan.
Pero yung nag-iisang bagay na kung saan ako'y sigurado, ay...
Na gusto ko na sa gitna ng kaguluhan,
iyong boses ang madidinig,
at iyong boses lamang.

Balik mo 'ko kung saan tayong unang nagkita,
kung saan tayong unang nagkakilala.
Balik mo 'ko sa panahong iyon,
yung unang beses na hinawakan mo ang aking puso sa iyong palad
at nagpangako na hinding hindi mo ito bibitawan.

Halika, balik tayo sa ilalim ng iyong puno.


II.
Habang ako'y nandito sa ilalim ng iyong puno,
hindi na importante sa 'kin kung malaki o maliit man ang mundo.
Basta't kayakap kita dito kung saan walang kahulugan ang oras,
alam kong iikot lang ng iikot ang mundo.
At sapat na yun para sa 'kin.

Dahil sa iyong pagmamahal,
lahat ng takot ay nadadaig.

When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.

My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.

We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.

That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.

Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.

Please, welcome me.

He smiles
A nicotine-stained smile
And waltzes through life
Appearing carefree

But I know better.

He's in love
Pretending to be in Love.
Not quite in Love, though.

His weary and wandering soul
Restless.
Forever searching for Something more.

Is there Something more?

He tries finding it
In her touch
And her lipstick kisses.

It's not there, though.

He tries finding it
With each life-taking
Puff

It's not there, though.

Why can't he see
That what he needs
Is right beside him?

Why can't he see
The arms
That are extended and ready
To receive him?

Why?

Why, Ralph?

Why?

Have I lost
Myself?

Are these
Lies?
Or are they
Just
The ugly truth?

Have I lost myself?

These names
These labels
These choking
Judgments they have cast on me

They must be true.

Liar.
Idiot.
Thief.
Coward.
Traitor.
*****.

These names
Are my names.
My labels.
Me.

They define me.
They make me who I am.
These names.
They
Are
Me.

They tell me.
All day long
Without fail
That
I
Am

Worthless.
Friendless.
Hopeless.

Unloved.
Impure.

They tell me
That I cannot do
Anything.

That I’m worth nothing.
That everything is impossible
Because
Just because
I’m me.


They must be right.
These words
Ring in my ears
Constantly.

Each syllable
Beats in my head
Like a never
Ending
Drum.

I remember when
I was so alive.

I remember----

Wait.

No.

No.

No.

No.

I was made for so much more.

These names may have defined me.
These names may have hurt me.
These names may have brought me down.
These names may have crushed me.

But He will

Redefine

Me.

Allow me
To redefine
Me.

I am

Priceless.
Fearless.

I am

A new creation.
The new has come.
Those names will not define me.
They cannot
Define me.

I am

Chosen.
Loved.
Pure.

Made new
In an image so amazing
With a fire in my spirit ever blazing

None can compare.

Watch me
Spread my wings
And escape the clutches
Of the dominion of darkness

Watch me
Do things
You  thought
And told me I’d never be able to do

Watch me rise up again
Watch me transform
Watch me defeat the enemy
Watch me prove
Watch me prove.
You.
Wrong.

I have a new spirit.
A new heart.
Which was once stone,
Has melted into flesh.

For I will no longer
Conform to the pattern

My past cannot hold me
In its dark chambers anymore

For I will look ahead
Above the skyline
Beyond the horizon
And reach a place
That is unimaginable

I now lay down
The things
I thought
Defined me

And allow those things
To be
Thrown
As far as the east is from the west

Gone is condemnation.
Gone is the past.
Gone are the old wineskins.
Gone are those names.
The lies.
The words of the people
Who want to steal
****
And
Destroy
Me.

I know that
I’ve fallen short of the glory,
But

I have been remade.
I have been reborn.
I have been redeemed.

I have entered the Kingdom.

I have been

Redefined.

Remember Me in the days of your youth
before the days of trouble come
and the time arrives when you will say
you don’t want to live
anymore.

When the sun and its light
and the moon and its stars
grow dark
and the clouds return after the rain;

                                                     I love you.

When the keepers tremble
and the strong ones fall
when fear reigns in the hearts of men
and those looking through the windows give up;

                                                     I love you.

When the doors are closed
and there’s no way out,
when morning dawns
but the birds’ songs fade;

                                I love you.

When mountains fall
into the heart of the sea
and its waters quake and foam
and the earth shakes with their surging,

                            I love you.

When danger lurks around every corner
and passions no longer burn
and you watch helplessly as the ones you love
make their beds in the blackest hole

                  I love you.

When the dust returns to where it came from,
and the spirit returns to the One who gave it
and your flesh fails you
and your sight grows dim
and all hope is lost
and there is no one there

Remember,
I love you.

Somewhere stuck between the line bordering
faith and reality,
there is a girl.

A girl to whom
there is no such thing
as five thirty in the morning.
There are only beginnings,
fresh grass, and
mugs of hot chocolate.
She doesn’t seem to know
what it means to drag your feet
or to
lifelessly slide your toothbrush’s bristles
against the cracks and crevices of your teeth,
wishing you were already at the end of the day
when it had only just begun.

To her,
every printed word is spoken.
She can hear the pages breathe and her heart sings whenever
another character enters,
because for her it means
one more person
to love
which is something
she never seems to run out of.

It is why her eyes dance
and roses grow ‘round her face,
it is why gladness
pours out from her fingers as they
glide across ivory keys,
it is why she sprinkles her words with salt,
why she refuses to let her city on a hill grow dim,
why she believes that death
is a new beginning,
why her hope never wavers,
why she won’t stop giving and
giving and
giving.

Her faith shakes mountains, but sometimes,
only the mountains know it because she
gets frustrated, too.
I’m here to tell her that she
may not see it now,
but the seeds have been growing in places
she didn’t think possible.

So continue to plant them
with thrill and with wonder,
as you live each day like
it was the first.
Don’t stop the water’s flow,
and soon you will find yourself
laughing at Doubt’s face,
I don’t think you’ve ever seen
Doubt’s face.

You’ve been alive
for three hundred
and sixty five days more,
but if growing up means
losing the fireworks in your eyes
and the beautiful thoughts
that sprout from your mind
then,
I beg of you,

don’t.

I want to hear
the rush of angels and
hearts beating fast to the sound of
redemption and revival, know that

there is a so that you can
attached to every do not
it's just that no one stayed long enough
for the sentence to finish. See how

glory is piercing the witching hour, so
come, restless ones,
lie by the streams and drift into
the song of lions and new wineskins.

There is a rising.
A rising.
Please start arising.
Arising.
Today we're arising.

m hmm hmmhmm hmm
the tune is yours to carry
in this wounded city with its
cr    a    cked        ribcage
that is trying to hold its heart the same

stillbreathing, still breathing


m hmm hmmhmm hmm
gawing sa 'yo ang himig na ito
sa isang bayang dumudugo
kanyang tadyang may  la  m a   t
ngunit nais pa ring hawakan ang puso

humihingapa, humihinga *pa

Sumisigaw at
Sumisipa ang mga
Awit at tulang
Nilalabas ng iyong
Daliring nanginginig.

Ganito ang pag-
Ikot ng mundong ito:
Tuloy-tuloy lang.

This hour last week, we kissed the stars alive.
With you, there were no walls and no far seas,
No reason to doubt or to just survive,
My heart was with you, and yours was with me.

How cruel the souls of the gods above,
That they should mind our paths and our crossing,
That we should be the ones who fell in love,
A fate that led to a war-torn ending.

This hour last week, we danced to life the moon,
But we forgot that seasons come and go,
And now the red sun bleeds-- it bled too soon.
We can no longer love; I am the foe.

You hold your people's hate in your strong hands,
You shake and the gun sings of God's near land.

fast, sharp and deadly
watch out for its biting jaws
victims cut in half

sharp and deadly
strong and steely
its grip as firm as iron
catastrophic cutters
bloodthirsty biters
menacing,
threatening,
never building up
always tearing
d
       o
       w
n
jaws relentlessly
endlessly
mercilessly
slicing
snipping
shearing
vict­ims,
two from one
beware before it’s too l

I seem to have forgotten my soul somewhere along the road. I am

Waiting for a miracle or
Any sign of starting over.
Never have I
Turned this sour in my insides or

This bland until every sense poured
Out a frighteningly large amount of nothing.

For my heart has never
Even tried to
Eradicate and
Let  go of

A person
Like you before
I
***** at the thought of
Erasing yet

Also at the thought of
Going
Away from your memory
I am losing the ability to make sense of things I really, really
Need to find myself soon.

she thought she was alone.

what was once soft and sweet,

vanished.

instead came a dark cloud.


what was once beautiful and true,

vanished.

a broken heart and a twisted mind

came.

and.

stayed.


every teardrop was a waterfall.

the pieces were like shattered glass,

too little to pick up,

sharp.

and.

deadly.


she thought she was alone.

she didn’t see

the small, tiny,

flickering flame

that was there the whole time.


she thought she was alone.

she.

thought.

wrong.

We’ve been walking on this journey for years now, and I’ve held your hand long enough to know that when I slip into quicksand or miss a step, it is not you who lets go. Your fingers aren’t the ones coated in doubt or in selfishness, gripping firmly only when it feels right, when it feels necessary. Your hands are not made of brittle bone, shivering and breaking when the cold starts to show. Teach me to never let go.

We’ve known plenty of good weather. Safe landings. Skies full of stars and days of endless wind. Scraped knees were never a problem, we always seemed to be in fields of yellow and green, surrounded by miles and miles of running streams. There were times when I would purposefully stumble, thinking that it would be okay, I’d land elbows first in the faces of dandelions anyway. Other times I’d stray, not because of greener grass, but because I was too caught up smelling that single flower to see that you were calling me to the next meadow, where petals of a sweeter smell and prettier colors stretch out like a seascape. Teach me to give up my little treasures and desires, for yours are far better.

Sometimes I get a little adventurous. I tell you I want mountains. I tell you I want to climb, that I want the strain and the adrenaline rush, the thrill of letting pieces of hardened sand and pebble carry my whole weight, the challenge, the sweat, the blood. I tell you I want to see things from the eyes of God. I tell you I want to struggle and overcome. I tell you I want the soul of a deer, to plant my feet firmly on the narrow heights, I tell you I’m alright but when I’m actually in the process of the climb, in the process of the waiting, wondering which rock do I grasp next, which path do I trust with my steps, I tell you I’m not ready for mountains after all. But you did not bring me here to watch me fall, so teach me. Teach me to keep my ankles strong, and my hold on you stronger.

And when we tire of mountains, you take me to oceans. You know how much I love the saltwater mysteries, how my heart sings when I get to feel clumps of wet sand beneath the soles of my feet. And you know how much I don’t know about the waters, you know that it’s hard for me to tell when an undercurrent comes sweeping like thousands of tiny *****, that I can’t spot the difference between high tide and low tide until the waves are lapping at my door, that I still swim after jellyfish no matter how many times I’ve been stung, and how I forget that not every beautiful thing has beautiful intentions, and especially how oceans also terrify the breath out of me. One of my deepest fears is to die drowning, but still you row us out in a weathered boat into the middle of the sea, no life vests or whistles, nothing. We’ve had calm waters and dolphin mornings, we’ve had rough rowing and storms brewing, and each time you managed to put the thundering and rumbling in my chest to rest, and each and every time you’ve gotten us back to shore. But honestly, there are days I want to jump ship, sail my own boat, find my own sea, and some days I do. Those days I lose my way, those days I’m half drowned, but I turn around and find you there. Teach me to trust the one whose voice the waves and wind know.

Now here we are in a different kind of sea, the kind without water. This pit is abundant in ***** yellow devils, illusions and false promises, but all I have are questions and weary feet. Why are we here? Where are we going? Why did we leave? How am I going to shake off this mirage? When is it going to rain? After all we've been through, this is where you're taking me?

My path is an endless circle, a cycle using my sight, my heart, my feelings, my stocked up wisdom to judge my situation and I come to the conclusion that you have deserted me. But you haven't. And I don't understand how you stuck with me through hills and valleys, and never once thought of leaving, but you haven't. Your shadow is cast on me and peace overflows. Maybe I've been asking the wrong questions. Maybe instead of asking you where the stretch of sand ends, I should be asking you to teach me.

Teach me to love you in every season, whether it be the harshest of winters or the wildest of heats. Teach me to understand that deserts make me thirst for water, that I need to be lost so that I may be found, that without a battle there is no victory, that seeds die before they grow into trees. But before anything else, teach me to let the sound of your voice to be what guides me through winding paths and roaring winds, not which road looks smooth or which sky looks dim.

We've been walking on this journey for years now, and I've held your hand long enough to know that all this time you have been teaching me to fall in love with my eyes closed.

she twirled

she glided

she leaped

she spun

she kicked

she ran

she pointed

she smiled

she cried

she laughed

she sighed

she jumped

she flew

she moved

she had a voice

no words can describe.

her midnight song

wordless, whole and pure,

melted hearts

and warmed souls.

she could sing the moon down

if she wanted to.

and that she did.

It's not that she won't try or
that she is wallowing in fear
it's just that
she is still learning
how to make mistakes