It was mid-June
the sky clear as if
nothing ever went wrong,
as if nothing was ever going
to disturb your poetic melancholy.
You stood before the tall glass window,
walked determined and unsure
and suddenly you were before the ocean
and suddenly I was drinking tea
on the peak of Himalayas
this is what I’ve always loved about you:
knowing and not knowing,
daring and not caring.
making a long trail of colorful paper stars
and letting them fly.
They don’t seem to ever come back.
“They don’t ” , you say.
One day , one night,
they appear in your darkest hour.
When suddenly you are breathing
the salty fresh ocean air,
when the fresh scented air
on top of a mountain makes you one
with the running spring, soaring bird,
wild flowers, and the shiny little creature
that crawls on a dandelion.,
then unknowingly you felt it in your being
that everything you did, said, learned,
longed for, suffered or struggled for,
no matter how real and harsh,
was just another paper star.
And only when you let the star go,
It came back to you
certain, shining and guiding
like a true friend.,
like your beautiful soul.
beautiful
Red Scarf
Your face halfway hidden
in the red scarf that she
knitted for you long ago
when you wouldn’t turn
your face from the ocean and look
at her.
I remember that day when
she was sitting on a wooden chair,
the room smelled of tarragon and firewood
and you stood with your back to her
staring at the ink blue ocean.
Her hands knitted steadily and
you never knew the pain she endured
with the hands that disobeyed with
pain. And you never knew
that each time she stared at your dark
sad curls, she knitted her stifled
poems into a red scarf that
you wear now to hide your beautiful face.
And she remembers all this with
a faded smile while she knows
the ocean could still be inky blue
and your scarf must still be poetically red.