I sit on this balcony, my door wide open to the evening sounds.
Behind a lemon tree and palms and falling water to mask the party below.
Under glass skylights that reflect twinkling lights below
And it all seems so real
But the air gives it away
Stale from the day of people walking to and from, the plants hurry to catch up.
I wonder, where are the mosquitos?
A visit–
the first in four years.
I am not who I was back then.
They haven’t changed.
A long weekend
stretched out by
stilted conversations
and uncomfortable silences.
Hugs are exchanged
as hellos and goodbyes,
impersonal and loose.
There’s nothing to hold on to
anyway.
A family reunion–
the first in four years
and maybe the last
depending on how
fate and time decide
to intertwine their hands
with chance.
A lifetime missed,
both sides to blame,
and no way to revive
something that is long dead–
if it ever even took a breath.
When you’re looking back,
don’t lean too far
down the rabbit hole,
lest you should fall in.
There’s nothing
to hold on to.
Both favor brevity.
Choose words the way
a good cook chooses
ingredients. Search
for what is fresh, flavorful.
Employ precision–
mistake tablespoon
for teaspoon of salt
and your bread won’t rise.
Use a verb too vague,
an adjective too flowery
and the air deserts your poem.
Each requires a reader
who engages, interacts.
The dish changes subtly
or greatly with each making.
The poem never reads
the same way twice.
