the garden bed was scooped and the dirt soil drops some crumble
the breeze of northeastern winds glaze once again, in the midst of these stacked timber I smell wood
ages, ages of their lives, do their aroma furled the notes present inside their detached bodies
away from soil, from roots that lived, digged deep in the Earth's clay and crust
the water poured out from the clouds today, the water made a flood
behold, what spilled, are bowels of the earth uncovered, the garden pail, a small scooper in color green
shove them, snugged as it sinks in the soil, find what is dry in summer, a wet loam clay of December, January
come February, will the sky ever be gray? if the sun refuses to shine today?
is it hidden or reserved for May?
if the sun rises, and the clouds thinned, will it burst for May? or will it give me a little heat for this year end month of December?
but I no longer cling to the warmth of the hearth, the comfort of my blanket, soft and conditioned with a scent of pleasing chemicals
bleaching, bleaches, bleaching, these blankets, these jackets, my thick coat
against the earth, the soil drinks up the poison. perhaps to live, and test resilience, and mitigation
for fight against erosion, of health and the environment—look around and you'll no longer see lush, no evergreen
not on land, but on water, they swam deeper in the garden bed of the algae, they dance a festival of green
'til it blooms...
'til it burst...
and become a poison for the man
what comes the trickling stream of creek, when all of its waters are pink?
will you call it lovely, and i stare at it, with no thoughts and attention to wander, mind shuttled away from what is seen
perhaps, it's the same for the pinkish or evergreen
around me
but northeastern winds bounced and swayed from one mountain to the leaves of the trees,
passing by in gust and sometimes a serenade, move gently, like waves of the invisible eye, i can stream the breeze with my cheeks
the gooseflesh of my skin, because of chill and satisfying weather of December
if spring arises, it comes later, before the bright mango sun and jade green of the equator,
whether be in Caribbean or around the line, let me relish the moment, if these gray skies are the closest to snow
and the wind is a reminder, for me to find comfort in my blanket, and never miss the chance to curl under it
