How stern and soft the furrow beneath the ground, is the heart that ashes.

To grow from the shallows of a soul seated in the depths in winter.

Your sunny eyes hold mysterious graves full of flowers; some withered.

Again if epiphany comes, it is enamored.

 

I say this in admiration.

 

Of the knotted curl in your chest, the splinter and thorn, the waves in synchronicity.

How your spirit sings out flocks.

Burning cages with silence, and in voice I hear your streets.

Narratives play music.

Of strength and pain…

I say this in admiration.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata