patrona

her umbrella protected me from the drops that fell from the sky
but not from her eyes

favourite shirt

it's not cold, but i'm shivering.
i button up my autumn-hued, checked flannel shirt
closing my eyes, i feel the warmth of home embrace me

I eat my porridge more carefully here
exploring each spoonful to find bits of oat husk with my teeth.
they sit in a little pile
on a scrap of paper
next to my bowl.

rain-speckled wind clears the cobwebs
i smile to the sun

everything readjusts to fill the emptiness of time

the distractions busy you

and allow you to put that which is not in sight

slowly out of mind 

(as the saying goes)

the spaces grow smaller

the gaps fewer

and the distance greater

pasta

the taste of garlic, roasted to perfection by accident, breaks through all the other ingredients to delight my tongue.

unexpected company

My luxury for the weekend: a creamy, ripe avocado.
A moment's hesitation before I split it open to share
it won't last as long now
but it will be twice as appreciated

the perfect tension of the surface jiggles as another drop from the tap falls into the pan of water that it has been filling, patiently, one drop at a time, all night.  I watch the water bubble become fuller and fuller, wondering how much it can take before it bursts and spills over.  And then begins again, like it's done before. 

meeting the neighbours

twin beagle puppies, an old wheezy calico and the owner of the knitting shop all say hello to me on my way home from the office.

the cleaning lady and I go shopping together.  We pick out soap, scrubbers, and a variety of cleaning implements that are not familiar to me.  Even mopping the floor seems to need some translation.  Two types of rags hang next to each other on the shop wall.  I tell her to choose which one she needs.  "Whichever one says it's for the floor," she tells me, "I can't read."

i miss autumn

a single yellow leaf flutters to the ground from the lush green tree.

a moment of thanks

rice, beans, tortilla
a simple meal
enriched by appreciation

after the rain

I lie on the bench in the park in full afternoon sun, feel the heat on my skin, the light shines through my closed eyelids. A lazy, languid breeze stirs my hair.

Suddenly, a cricket warbles.

I laugh.

I know how he feels.

bad mood

buttercup butterfly butts in

survival over trust

I gently call to the orange tabby across the street, but it just looks at me with terrified eyes.  Disappearing down a drain pipe with a whispering swish of its tail, my heart breaks for the life it must have known.

concrete walls topped with coiled barbed wire surround the apartment
a hummingbird's delicate feet find a place between the metal spurs
her colors are lost against the gray morning sky
a black, songless profile
beak sharp as the twisted metal

changes in the fabric of things...

polka-dot sheets draped over the furniture
how I wish I was a kid
and could just play in the fort
without worrying if they'd be dry before bedtime

muddy footprint

it's been raining non-stop for days now
and it's beginning to show

my favourite shop

the tiny shop floor crammed with buckets
a perfumed maze of green and petals
the owner has taught me: rosas, clavel, estrellita, gladiolo
I have yet to learn: gerbera, baby's breath, iris, lily
and so many others that I've never seen before
I pick my bouquet
one stem at a time
always over-estimating the size of my vase

anger and pride

burn my fingertips
until they can't touch the keys
to write the words
that would sooth their aching flesh