migration
Fresh Soil
This land
this dirt
this soil beneath my feet
The one where worms crawl out when it rains
Their bodies writhing in puddles, they move
This land in which
I bury my companions
I bury my customs
I bury my history
The one where the act of living is sacred
And memories blow as embers in the wind
Like the worms discarded castings
I do not own the moments I make
Left behind as we swim to fresh soil
Pampas
Beautiful pampas your long aristocratic fronds
soft and stately rustled by the ocean winds
your golden color radiant glow begetting luxury
Was it your elegance that scared away the others
or your ravenous zeal to take when you invaded
with leaves sharp as knives?
I too come from a different place
Living with a ferocity begging for release
What terrors lie beneath my beauty?
Lost Home
A beautiful space with warm wood and light carpets
where the sun softly saunters in
and my secrets are kept in boxes.
Last seen in the early 2000’s when I left.
Responded to names I almost don’t remember.
I would show a picture, but it has been a while and we grow so fast.
I wish I could offer a reward, but the things I have don’t seem valuable these days
If you find my home please ask it how it has been
and tell it I don’t need to keep secrets in boxes anymore
Drift
The bones of trees drift in with the tide.
Ghastly skeletons foreign to the shore
soaked with the brine of billions.
I walk along the coast picking up bones.
Finding shapes and stories in the
remnants of forests washed by the waves.
I am a stranger in my city.
My bones baked white in the sun
clatter against the pavement.
They no longer fit in my body.
So I leave them alone,
Drifting for someone else to find.