Berries Behind The Bushes


My calloused palms curiously
peer at the Skies above.
They hold its gaze and hope
into a hazy night
clouding their vision.

They don’t count the inches and miles
between the crevices within and the Spaces above,
they don’t let their
faces fall flat,
forever fighting
gravity’s luring tug.

Instead, they catch each Raindrop,
each Pitter Patter landing silently
on cracked calluses;
Calluses cultivated by doubts
who tugged on masts of the tallest
spars, forever failing to find this
rumored Horizon.

And as the sails shifted
with winded times, I
let the Ropes fly free,
curiously gazing above…
arms extended, fingers spread wide,
these thickened palms
catch the raindrops falling, falling.
Always Falling.

Catching, Catching…


In the depths of the forbidden
orchard, a daughter catches and catches
sweet berries from her father.

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Crouches low behind
the thicket, tossing
the fruits gently her way.
Sticky violet juice sprinkles her
cream wrists as she
holds the gems
too tightly.

Their delicate skin laminates hers
as color seeps down her thin arms.

She looks at her stained hands and asks,
“Poppa, why won’t you come
out from behind the bushes?”

He answers with silence.


And I am curious, 
ever curious, with the daughter’s
question echoing
In my ears.
A reverberating tinnitus.

My palms turn their faces up,
asking “Why?”
as I wait for answers to
Pitter Patter silently over
calloused years.

But no matter its purity,
this Rain will never
cleanse me of the
violet dye pulsing through
my faint wrists.