happy birthday, mom

--

it’s been almost a year

since you’ve been gone,

and your absence

has been difficult.

i have done my best

to see and experience

more of the world,

and make you proud.

i came across a Japanese word,

i wanted to share with you:

komorebi

it means:

the sunlight that shines,

through the leaves of a tree.

and although you are gone,

i still hear the music you used to love,

i see crystal prisms in windowsills,

lily of the valley’s beside the driveway,

and your books on my bookshelf,

i see the excitement of families decorating Christmas trees,

and the taste of candied apples in the Autumn.

i see acts of kindness

and open generosity in strangers

and when i’m at my best,

i feel an enormous

sense of optimism,

and an unwavering hope to see

the good, the beauty

in all things in this world,

and in these moments,

i am comforted and happy:

i see that you are all around me

and i feel your warmth

welcoming me forward,

like the sunlight that shines,

through the leaves of a tree.

global pandemic

--

as i observe

endless

maps and charts

tracing how quickly

the pandemic

spreads across

our world

i realize how close and connected

we all truly are,

and it makes me wonder,

(with optimism)

if we all participated,

how quickly humanity might

infect the world with

kindness.

the poet

--

her words,

stitched together

playfully and

elegantly,

weave together,

a delicate fabric,

a maze of

insights,

emotions

and experiences,

revealing

slowly and briefly,

bits and pieces,

of the woman

concealed

beneath,

and I read

through

her words,

assembled and

worn beautifully,

like lingerie,

hoping to catch a

glimpse of the person

beneath the

complex

masquerade of

articulate

patterns,

hoping

to discover

who she truly is:

— the pure,

naked

authentic 'self'

she nervously

endeavors to reveal

to the world —

and secretly

hopes,

when dressed

- only lightly -

with the"right"

words,

is seen

and accepted,

as beautiful.