A POEM A DAY

I'm just happy to be here.

9/30: THE UNIVERSE DOESN’T WANT ME TO RAKE MY LEAVES, I THINK

The amount of leaves in my front yard
has to be a cosmic message about
the passage of time and what happens
when we aren’t paying attention,
or at least a graduate thesis
on the ghost of gravity
pulling the invisible strings from
Somewhere High Up Above
the sprawling Oak trees that line
my little street.
Or maybe it’s a divine display of
the Inevitable, meant to remind me
that the changing of seasons requires a
kind of a blind faith. I know these leaves
have to go somewhere, but they’ll
never go back home, no matter the proximity
to its roots. A rotten truth. I used to think the soil kept
its secrets—but the ground keeps only
what it wants to. Maybe I’m thinking too much.
I can’t be the only one who has steadfast beliefs
in the trees,  or in the things
one cannot possibly conceive. What seems like
a thousand leaves fall and each one of them
is a setting sun, taking its light back from the sky
and spinning gracefully through the very air
I breathe, the same air in my lungs used
to read between the lines of some daily poem the universe wrote,
hoping I was paying attention to the smallest of details— Like the blue jay, for example,
that swooped into the afternoon shade
of the tree as a black cat unwinds in its fallen
leaves beneath—and I see the lesson in plain view.

8/30: I FEEL JUST LIKE AN OPEN BOOK

This is the part where I ask more of myself.
I can think of a thousand reasons why,
but all I need is one.
Seven days ago, under the Houston springtime sunshine,
I turned twenty-nine and like clockwork,
I examined every year before it.
There’s a story being told even when we
already know what happened. Working backwards,
I see the extraordinary timing of what I lost
and what I gained. I think of the word
Serendipity and hesitate to summarize
my character development with something
as powerful and simple
as fate. I could have sworn I made a choice
and it was the choosing that carried me
forward. What comes to mind is Current
As in force, as in direction, as in the bodies
of water I swam through to reach solid ground.
The past is filled with poems—
ones I wrote, ones I read, ones I heard, and ones I kept
on repeat in my head.
I go back to fixed points in time and look
for the reasons I tried so hard to be understood.
I look at my life like lines in a poem, as if
I crafted myself with the intention of rhythm.
The good news and bad news is I still
want to be understood. And is there anything more
romantic? The instinct in me wants to write
but I digress, but the truth is, I’m right where I want to be, even
If I need more time than I expect. What the winter
taught me was that I am still
a work in progress, even if the love I lost
returned to me like the words to
my favorite song.
And isn’t that what really matters?
All around me, Spring makes it music too
and I worship the small moments
of my meaning. Where I come from is not just one place.
I’m scattered like a vibration, possessed by
the energy of imagination. I could begin a story,
but it would just take me to another.