Grace
The many tremors come
unannounced, but we know
they are coming. The old earth
gives way and soft papayas
are on the ground. Lemongrass
fills the air and everywhere there is
a steely edge to the way people
call our names. The ground
both fact and faceless,
save for the debris, the detritus
of our decisions. The floods?
We know they are coming.
Do you remember the questions
you were raised not to ask?
Would you tell the hungry
and the homeless the weight
of your coin? Would you tell
any man to his face how gratitude
must look like? To lose our balance
is to wind the clock back:
If we had stopped and kept
the mountains proud,
gentle rains would follow.
Oceans and rivers silvering
and clear beneath the light.
We would all agree every
tree is beautiful even when
leaves refuse to sway
in one direction. The skies
would be alive with feathers—
birds flaring their wings,
mastering the wind
with simple grace,
and everything else
would remain still.
The Millennia Need Not Be Measured by Beginnings of Grief
Several decades before you
pictured the world and shared
your breath with the rest of life,
High Priestess Enheduanna wrote
the first stories with authorship.
Imagine the duty of crafting
a world’s origin, its past
and future shaped by
scripts and psalms. Or was it
a burden? Can one be responsible
for the biography of a civilization?
Still, allow yourself to breathe
without worry. Without the claws
of crows tugging at the back of your shirt
despite what the glaciers tell us.
There is no hiding from the moon.
There is no hiding the sentiment
of this fire dying out each day.
Your story is your own. The millennia
need not be measured by beginnings
of grief and guilt. Someday, when all
stories are told, the longest lullaby
will be sung in your room
for your longest star-full night.
There Will Always Be a Poem that Escapes Our Catching
There will always be a poem
that escapes our catching.
Early this morning, while walking
to church along Sta. Catalina,
I saw great egrets shimmering
against the rain-fated sky.
On my way home, a dove
limped on the pavement,
one foot short. I once saw a clip
about fish lines, balloon strings,
human hair amputating legs of birds.
So much depends on feathers,
on flight, and we are not helping.
Just leave the birds alone
because who are we to deserve
the secret of wings? Just take
any poem and hear it sing.
You do not have to fly to be free.
No one asks for a poem
for every occasion, yes.
No one gasps for air,
claws their way to the light,
until we are drowning, falling.
