(Inspired by a title of a book)
This is my private mythology:
the wind chasing the runaway leaves,
snowflakes marching on the rooftops,
raindrops piercing the deaf city,
sunshine painting the garden green.
This is a Walden inside a Walden
where solitude crowds my days and
Nature’s company isolates me at night.
I walled this world with words
against the barbaric silence.
My tears water this garden,
zephyr brushes the trees and
the sun bathes the leaves its color.
This is my private mythology.
First published in The Germ
When mornings are veiled with sadness
I ask that you whisper no song
Sell my tears at the hardware
Donate my blood to the crickets
Just leave the door of our bedroom
Slightly open where I could hear
The sun’s footsteps like a burglar
And remember not to water
The sunflowers on my windowpane
Just leave me alone with your shadow.
When sadness is veiled with mornings
Drop a hello to a marionette
Listen to a bleeding Stradivarius
As one would hear a sermon
Then walk with a living saint
In our living room and dance
Sculpt me a rainy season soon
The sawdust rippling in my bathtub
And I will forget the mornings
Forget that mornings have no shadows.
First published in The Siren