Your little hand

warm and wrapped into mine.

We walk down the street.

Up and over the hill,

stopping at flowers,

mailboxes, clouds

squirrels, planes in the sky.

Our pace is neither fast nor slow.

At times you trot ahead

with that funny toddler run.

Then you come back.

Searching for me.

Your wrist bones alive,

your little hand in mine.

To the clouds and drifts of grey.

There are tears in those places.

They reach for the moon.

They come like unexpected petals

of a blossom so new.

A finger on my cheek.

My eyes are closed.

I listen.

The pebbles on the shore

sing a song to the waves.

The salt and the brine

mix in my mind.

I turn to the passing.

The leaves.

The dear ones.

The questions you ask

at three years of age.

Sun rays timid

dance on your forehead.

I long for the touch

the warmth

the caress

that reminds me of a love

from long ago.

(…And it was at that age
that poetry came in search of me (1))
the words on the page
the words in the music
I was 13 and then 16
caught in a body that was
as young as it was old.
I saw the sidewalks
the people
the grime
the suffering and the beauty
I wanted it all:
to contain the world in a kiss
in a word…
the fire and the wind
the sand and the shore
the sea and the waves.

Inside my mind I began
to sing songs.
They were words
stitched together
weaving the fabric
of starry nights
of love and loss
ambition and wanderlust,
of a young woman.
There were trains and trams.
The morning bustle,
the glow of the sun on the windowpanes.
Countless experiences of love.
there was fear to be held.
A deep desire to trust.

The words became loose.
The punctuation was dropped.
It was a flowing wave of synesthesia.
It was jazz on the page.
No editing allowed.
No pauses.
Capture the moment:
carpe diem.

Note 1: Poem by Neruda