I think that poetry is the way

buckbrush blossoms smell like freshly buttered popcorn

when they bloom in the spring.

and,

I think poetry is how

tiny flowers bloom in the cracks of my sidewalk,

and how the ants create paths that weave around them.

poetry is how

sinking your teeth into a fresh orange

feels exactly like the sun on a warm summer day,

or perhaps,

how a sip of hot chai is exactly like

autumn leaves skidding across a sidewalk.

I think poetry is the way

I would tell you every single secret hidden in the depths of my heart

except for the one titled "how I feel about you"

no,

poetry is the way they link their pinkies beneath the table,

as if they're constantly promising,

no,

pledging their forever and ever love. 

poetry is tear-smeared mascara,

and the gentle hands that wipe it away.

poetry is flower crowns braided into hair,

and handmade mittens,

and the smell of freshly baked bread.

poetry is the way I never noticed the stars

until I went to the city

and they disappeared.

and, 

poetry is the fog curling around the tip-top of a mountain,

and the swirling patterns cream makes in tea

right after you pour it in.

poetry is the symphony of summer insects that sing every night,

and the smell of jasmine flowers

creeping through my tattered window screen.

poetry is summer rainstorms,

and hot pink rainboots.

or maybe,

everything is poetry,

if the right person is paying attention to it at the right time.

Music

Music playing in my head

Pounding in my ears

My lips hum the tune

And my feet start to tap

The music playing, playing, playing

The music pounding, pounding, pounding

Like everything will be alright

When the tides grow strong

And the mountains become steep

The music keeps playing, playing, playing

When the storms grow vast

And the buildings collapse

The music keeps pounding, pounding, pounding

Like everything will be alright

wrote this a while ago in response to the Canadian wildfire smoke but i guess i never posted it~

wildfire smoke

open your eyes,

look at the world around you, which

is a nonsensical dream even though

you are awake.

(there will be no waking up

from this nightmare that is

real life.)

stare at the apocalyptic horizon,

at the smoke obscuring the iconic

new york city skyline.

(watch civilization crumble 

before your eyes.)

now the world — and our future —

is veiled in a vividly orange haze,

and is 

burning burning burning

and you are still asleep.

will 

you

wake 

up

before it all turns to ashes 

and smoke?

Ode to the spider

Oh, you eight legged,

Hairy,

Sometimes scary arachnids.

Even just a common gray,

Everyone stops

To get out of your way.

Oh, and your web, always flowing.

In the morning, dew-speckled, glowing.

I love your webs construction,

Saving us from destruction.

I wish people would stop and stare,

Entranced by your be-au-ti-ful glare,

But no, they just walk past (very fast).