The Space Between
I live in a vase,
in the space left between the branches.
I wait for the light,
exactly where it falls—
at the bend of a branch
that seems to have broken.
What might have begun
as the most uneven shape
may turn out to be
the most elegant one.
I gather the withered petals,
for they hold
the fragrance they kept the longest.
What may seem a margin
could be a footnote—
revealing the whole equation.
The Window in Autumn
Each morning,
I opened the window to see if fall would fall to its end.
It leaves some leaves
suspended in the wind
until they fall,
while others are left to remain,
holding the echo
of the last fall.
The Road of Roses
I trace the road of roses
where the moon shreds her gleam
into micro-silvery beams
to feed the mouths of buds
with equal shining pieces.
They grow loved and nourished
under the silver mother,
extending their steps,
marching ahead
toward the stream.
And when they reach it,
they stop and look.
There she is,
the silver mother,
resting on the water,
her face trembling
between the waves.
They bend, petal by petal,
and see themselves
in her silver face.
They don't drink.
They only look.
Then, hungrily, they sip
the water that holds her beauty,
and stay beside the stream,
drinking and looking,
looking and drinking,
until her silver gleam
lives, petal-deep in each one.