Lay your dreams, my hatchlings

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you away from the sea.

As children we trundle on the sand towards the moon
and lay our dreams in clutches, daring to hope
that some will survive to adulthood.
Few do.

But twenty-some years pass, and then
crawling, lumbering, we return, the nests
now empty, yet
somehow, one, two, four of those dreams
find us, join us, lead our way
back to the sea.

Do not throw away your hopes and dreams--
they guide you back to the sea, and become
the water in which you swim,
so that no matter how lost you become
you may always make your way.

Silence in the Office

I smell rose petals in the air
when I walk into the dull, dark office;
silence fills the halls, but I smell
hot coffee, rich and thick, percolating.
The cologne of the neighboring cube
overpowers the sound of his typing
until I hear nothing; the lightly burnt air
scent of the heater running fills a
hum-less room.

I sit, and work, in the silence,
bright colors jumping past my eyes.
Reds, greens, purples of ink
bleeding papers into Standard English,
while pastel blues and eggshell whites
backlight purple mardi gras beads
and turquoise posters of ocean scenes.

I sit, and work, in the silence
and wonder where everyone has gone,
in an office full of scent and color,
the dystopian quiet plays an anthem
to the tune of rising zombies.

Here comes the fall

I.

On the first day of fall, burnt leaves
actually taste okay, even if it's not
how I usually like my tea.

II.

The world sings year-long songs
and the lyrics change every so often.
As a child, the first day of fall was
the change from glimmering opal drops
in the morning grass to
the scent of cinnamon and leaves
in the morning air.

III.

Fall would depress, but
I can smell the State Fair approaching,
caramel apples and crowds so thick
my elbows already hurt, produce
piled high on tables and fried foods
that make my gut churn a month away.
The delight of my fall, the rambunctious
celebratory wake for summer.

Sencha and time

I scoop two teaspoons of sencha leaves
into the strainer--wait, I should have only
used one. But it'll still taste fine, so I
rumble my way down to the coffee machine
and pour the hot water into the empty mug,
leaves still waiting on my desk. Thankfully
that habit is strong enough, or I'd have burnt
leaves with bitterness under the roots. And
I wonder if it's worth it, morning, if it's worth
the heavy eyes and hold hands, today when I
imagine I still feel half-digested catfood under
my nails despite lots of soap, when the blinds
have been near savaged by orange fur, and
what sleep there was, was fraught with snippets
of the kind I was almost glad to be woken from.
No, I think, no it's not worth it. But since I'm
here anyway, I'll drink my sencha. Later, I'll
sit with the writing group and be glad;
the luxury of friendship and time with friends
is harder to afford without that paycheck, so
the "worth-it"ness of mornings changes the
farther I get from them.

image by Maiko Kinari Shincha, from 2010

It's the people that make home

I can't read the signs, but
I know what they say:
"Home, this way; 
city and work that way."
I can't read the signs, or
the menu, but I know what
I want, and where to go:
They looks so happy and so full,
the wait pushing the doors;
let's go there. That, on that table,
it looks delicious. What is it called?
I think I'll have that.
The father frowns at the
impudence of the stranger,
and the small son giggles and
laughs and points. The mother
touches the child's seat but smiles,
knowingly, and I think they
look a lot like my parents,
not by their faces but by how
they move and act. I am home
in a home not my own and
if the food tastes a little odd,
it is delicious and hearty and
there is so much reminding me
of home, I cannot remember to
feel homesick--except of course
the every now and then that I do,
because "familiar" isn't perfectly
the same, even if it's awful close.

Battle Lost

Forgive me, but
the garden can't be saved.

The squirrels made their
inroads as the cats sat
in the kitchen window,
watching and chirping,
cursing the lack of kitty doors.

The soldiers are willing,
but the generals do not
want fleas in the bed.

Washing Away

Standing on the sand watching the tide come in,
I wonder why I bothered drawing anything.
The doodles are rich, beautiful; I had no ink
no paper and no pen. But I had sand, lots
of sand. So I drew what I wanted in the cold
damp medium, and it was coils of life and richness,
a truth I'd forgotten I had within me. Now here
comes the tide, and no one will ever see it
on the beach on a day too cold to swim,
and it will be as if it had never been--
to all the world except to me, in whom the
memory has been planted, and begun to grow.