In the secret hours of my existence,
I dance inside a world of words.
Every year my body ages,
My mind becomes more alive, wilder.
I am an ancient banyan tree,
Growing in reverse toward the seed that dropped
from Magdalena’s hands on her long journey to the free side.
the counting midnights
and the shower cries that left me damp with regret.
The rusty bicycle
Heaped over on top of itself,
Letting the wintery weeds devour the hope of a summer ride.
Tossing pangs into my heart
with the hopeful indifference of a twelve-year-old
throwing petals from her does-he-love-me flower.
The soft silence that invites me into the next day
Promising nothing and telling me that is enough.