pulled

we must always veer
from extremes
lest our fears
became reality.

one vision may evoke
that path marked off,
fear of choking
killing possibility.

I have found
leaving all open
provides ample ground,
while footing of stone
keep us from slipping under deserts of direction,
from quipping into sink hole
left unknown.

well kown, well grown are we!
who come so far just to find
ambiguity.

more so than me,
Morse code conducts conversations caught
click by click
in hesitant heresy.

to make voice less than human; to give but beepping rhyme,

but, oh, how I am guilty
of taking the reality out of rational.

my own compromise disguises my fears;
my fears disguising my own compromise

and Job telling, "God, what gives"
And Biliad blaming me,
"You see! what unrighteousness have ye?"

but though pits fall,
they grow again.
once spit out from juicy flesh,
must die to bring forth more.

where is the line of dying and death?
what constitutes difference of noun and verb,
like ser and estar we are told;
gringos just learning the difference between state and fact:

if dying is to be made darker,
then death is to remain dark.
but even pain fades,
till every tear is wiped away.

smile

i wonder if your smile
was ever for me.
pursed, photo lips because
you thought
"she'll see this."

i hope not.

it would just be

another lie.

hard.

I don't like to say that things are hard.
perhaps, because them i am weak,
perhaps, because then i am complaining,
perhaps, because then i am challenging the path i am on,

challenging my ability to press on.

I don't like to say that things are hard.
maybe, because then i could give myself grace,
maybe, because then i would have less responsibility,
maybe, because then i'd have to rely on other humans for support

and i don't want to do that.

i want to speak of you,
to speak with you,
to have you here.

not because i want you,
but because i miss you

and this is hard.

but, i can in no way speak,
make no sound that may ripple your surface,
that may tremor your experience far away.

instead, i'll pray.
because this is hard.

first snow

they whirled in ,
giving form to sharp cold that had been biting ears,
presenting softness, reflecting our blankets much more than the air they inhabited.

the sun shown,
adding brilliance to arrival of first snow,
and i thought, momentarily, that i wanted you here to share fervent flurries;

as quickly as they came,
their parade withered down to wet sidewalks,
leaving no trace of their grand austere that, for moments, dominated our world.

and i am left
with meltings of you, dampening my heart.
the fading of reality, distant as exquisite  crystal tracings in warm palms.

is our story the same as white blankets melted?