She told the spring it should apologize:
its sun had no right to shine that day.
Only a lone leaf turned upon its branch.
Look, it said, at the way I glow for you,
the times I brushed my kisses through your hair—
are your own ashes not enough
that you would wish them on the world?
Remember when you filled your palms with earth,
and somehow in their emptying
you found your smile?
Have you forgotten so quickly
or do you like the way your anxiety sounds
as it echoes at the intersection of thought and language?
It asked this, then it turned away.
Translucent it was, waving in the sun,
and how the world leapt alight,
as plunging fingers saw once more poetry of earth,
saw close black stains
and promised to the leaves
never to wash them off again.


Recipe for Emma: 1 part humor, 2 parts poetry, 1 part music and a dash of art, stir continuously until sarcasm is the right consistency, serve with coffee.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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