I walked along the edge of a road
in suburban Arizona. In between
a maze of cars, rocks settled
where grass used to live.
The sun fell with a ferocity
that lit the sky. I took a picture
but it came out grey and unfocused.
I wondered how to make it better,
how to alter or sharpen or contrast.
Instead I threw the photo away
and kept the scene within my hands.
Because some moments aren’t meant to be shared.
Some flames aren’t meant
to be captured
in a single frame.
On Turning Thirty
I’m beginning to understand life
as a series of starting overs,
of inhales and exhales,
beginnings and endings,
of leaning in and letting go.
like how the wick of a candle,
its foundation slowly
for another year to come.
I’m beginning to trust simple words
and revel in how sincerity
and honesty taste on the lips.
I’m beginning to walk away
from who I was without
forgetting who I was,
the way smoke clings to the air
long after the flame has blown away.
The People of Lira
Their hands don’t reach out for anything.
They don’t beg for money or food or forgiveness.
Light escapes from their eyes
and rests on anyone who matters,
which to them is everyone.
Their light is no mere reflection
of a moon with its back turned;
it lies deeper in the skin until
their souls radiate out
of their fingertips and tongues saying
you didn’t come here to save us.
A few moments in that expanse
of greener than green earth
and bluer than blue sky
you know their unspoken words to be true,
that the light you thought you brought
is but a mere flicker
compared to their ever growing flame.