Their Love

Like the moonrise

they brightened my earth.

They showered my darkness.

All the little seeds I’d planted,

of love and waiting,

they shined on.

They watered my garden

of lilies and willows

and bloomed them into more.

Giving. All they did was give.

They gave me their smiles

with open arms,

and they excused my absence.

They told me I was enough.

They nurtured me back to whole

and gave me the best gift:

they gave me themselves.

And in my garden

where I kept my loved ones

to spark like wildflowers,

where I was kept as a wallflower,

they took me and placed me

in the midst of it all.

They took my sadness

and reminded me

that this kind of love was enough.

And after time,

it became a shower of light.

You would never have known

it was night.

Psalm 136:9

Resilient no. 2

But then the tightness begins to loosen

with every day, subtly. Slowly.

A smile becomes fuller,

for all types of love

come and fill my heart again:

My grandmother, a good run.

My happy cousins, the ocean.

With each new day and sun,

I begin to forget.

And the idea of forgetting 

isn’t sad anymore.

Because knowing that this thing finally 

gets shined on, burns, and dies,

renews and grows

and you survive

is enough.


Let me take you to my garden.

Let me take you to where I bloom.

Where my little patch of earth

of ocean and mountains, bright in hue,

sing a song of joy and gloom.

Together, at the same time,

is where you’ll find me,

but kept safe in loving, helpful harmony.

Just know that there is more to me

than what you’ve seen—


In your garden, I became a wallflower.

But in mine, you consumed the wildflowers.


What’s your secret?

To love? What’s your loving secret?


My personal experience of love?

It comes from missing:

missing out,

missing missed chances,

missing them.

All the things that have been missed

stir an indefinite need to love.

Because the ache of missing fuels the need

to give, to fight for infinity,


which is a Person,

who is Love.

1 John 4:8