Walking in D.C.

a cherry blossom--
one budding leaf springs forward
yielding pink snow fall

(Un)Spoken

Odd—

you might think—

that words written on a page

in ink

would be the voice

for what she dare not say

to the rest of the world.

Swollen vocals in a crowd

as eyes search for corner

of familiarity.

Waiting,

Hoping,

that someone will come

to her first.

Yet, with keys

she may be bold

seeking freedom,

while wishing for more.

Retreat*

*Inspired by The Secret Garden by F. H. Burnett and set in England during World War II

Peeking through a hole in the gate

I can see it’s overgrown.

Dead narcissus in the garden,

on either side brown blooms.

Scattered nearby, a pebble lane,

around rotted swing, cycles.

Rusted by the door is an old cycle

keeping slightly ajar the gate.

Stepping onto the lane,

where in between weeds have grown,

I notice some life in the blooms—

not all life has been squeezed from garden.

There is still hope for this garden.

Though much is in the death-cycle,

with care there will be full bloom.

This image is not the gate-

way to hades it first appeared. Growing

upon me, I continue to walk down the lane.

Crouching down to see the lane’s

pebbles, painted ladybugs grace the garden.

I began to wonder about who had grown

up here. Why was this hidden? Was it a cycle

of memories hidden away? Pausing by the eastern gate

a single lily of the valley blooms.

Kneeling beside this tiny bloom,

I am by one’s lane.

Cold tears drip as I gaze toward the gate,

wishing my father and brothers were in the garden,

not off fighting in this cycle

of wars we have grown

accustomed to. At twelve years, I have grown

up with bombings. Almost nothing blooms

in London: where nightly cycles

have destroyed most victory gardens.

It’s why we were sent through the mountain’s gate.

Two years I’ve grown with this garden.

The lane is still torn in some places, but there are herbs and blooms.

Exiting the gate, I wonder how different life will be when we end this cycle.

a sestina