From Pen-light

Hope is a garden
that never runs
out of fruit.
To visit its groves
daily without
believing
in its anticipated harvest,
is like fetching water
with a weaved basket.

**

A Good Girl She Tried to Be

The streets wheeled her in a crib,
Her mother’s absence raised her in her blimp.
But there was another future patterned for her
By fate, the late bloomer’s cycle that comes
In misery’s dance and a flower’s early demise.
Romance filled her palms with chopped petals,
Half-truths slept with her without empathy.
And when the dove left the church’s rooftop
On that Sunday morning, the whole town had
More than a story to take home
After the last altar call.

**

Because of You

I wear boots torn from adventure, bear
scars from sunburn on my forehead, sing
alone when tears stumble down my cheek,
my heart a home pregnant with
a bird protesting its cage.

**