In every harbor, salt clings to skin,
and mothers’ songs drift into dawn,
soft as mango fuzz,
warm as a sun-stroked shoulder.
Markets breathe with spice and voices,
stretching like rope bridges
over rivers carved from memory.
We gather fragments—
grief tasting of smoke and ash,
joy dripping like sugarcane juice,
hope folded...
Flowers grew in the cracks
of the gardener’s calloused hands
as she glanced at the garden she cultivates
She never wanted to disrupt their growth,
yet they need the cutting.
The plants got hurt,
yet they bowed at the gentleness of her pruning.
Her finger bleeds,
yet she will always be...
The projector hums. In the theater’s dusk, a flicker unspools
a world. The scent of rice wine and stale popcorn grounds him,
a shadow of a boy who sinks into the creaking vinyl seat.
He came to this darkness seeking a map to a life he...
Van Gogh’s sunflowers —
all twelve of them —
so lively, lush,
standing, bending;
they do not submit
to ikebana’s poise
and posture —
golden — no — bronze —
beautiful yet strange.
I am certain
this is the color
of grief thick as impasto,
of desire leaping
like a gazelle,
beyond the canvas’s frame —
wedged in...
There is no warning—
the sky, a sudden insurgent,
opens with
guerrilla downpour.
Torrential rain,
an unrelenting witness,
assaults the fragile spines of trees
and the quiet bones of houses.
Water spills, not as mercy,
but as a force that shatters
the brittle calm we cling to.
In the heart's small orchard,
the fruit...
"There must be something strangely sacred about salt.It is in our tears and in the sea."from SAND AND FOAM (1926) by Khalil Gibran
Matthew 5:13— "You are the salt of the earth. But ifthe salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made saltyagain?...
We peer furtively at smiles, bent wrists
and it smacks of mortality.
We imagine—nebulae in the irises
of a stranger, like they bear stories
waiting for the optimum...