Words That Hold Their Breath

Soft is the windas it moves between the grasses.Petals loosen,surrendering to the air,flowing toward the beyond—carried into placesharsh,rock-strewn,and bereft of bloom.Still, the wind is silentas it moves between the grasses.Still, the petals release,trusting the current,flowing towardthe unknown.—Kakesha

She's fiercely in loveWith the idea of loveOf rose petals sprinkledOn bamboo sheetsThe luminescence of crackling wicksCasting a mysterious glowA soothing diffusion of Gardenia filling the airTrailing tentative tendrils of aromaMemories of soft touches and tinkling laughterLingering and clinging for desperate rebirthA lunar infusion of herbs on the windowsillWarm ceramic brimming with roots, leaves,And sun-dried berries; A familiar comfortWhen she settles on her bed aloneMemories fold into silent dreamsThe laughter recedes and the candle wicks fallInto ashen darknessShe realizes all she has are cool sheets, smudge bundles, and regret.She's fiercely in loveWith the idea of love

I was a tiny seed,smooth and new,pressed into moist earth,warmed and nourished by dew.I longed to remainin the richness of the soil,but the light called my name.So I reached,I rose,I pushed my way through—and opened to the world,in bloom,anew.

We think of gardens as beautiful,vibrant,a living myriad of daylightTransformed into a mysterious euphony of soundand growth by moonlightAn array of soft petals,an aromatic litany of botanical enchantmentdiscovery,surrender,and splendor

The seeds of something beautiful begin to bloom.Two strange souls lean toward the same flame,dark liquid eyes meeting until the room falls away.No conversation can cool it,no hand brushed across a table can tame it,no message at noon can hold what has already begun to burn.In this chapter, I leave behind the girl full of hope and flowers.In this chapter, I leave behind the woman who thought longing was gentle.The sheets remember the storm,petals loosened from the sepal,and still, in her mind's eye, she sees him—wildfire, ruin, and bloom.Yet from the burn, something tender still reaches for the light.

When I was young,the library was the only quiet placeI wanted to be.Everywhere else was noise—laughter, endless conversation,the steady drum of ordinary life.I remember summershot and sticky against my skin,climbing treesand drinking lukewarm water from the hose.I chased butterflies,caught lizards,and ran screamingfrom spiders and scorpions.I wore poison ivy like a summer scarand snacked beneath pecan trees,blissfully happy,youth bloomingacross my flushed, melanated cheeks.As a young woman,I trembled beneath the weightof unrealized hopes and dreams—dreams delayed by feckless loveand the sweetness of delusion.Motherhood came early,followed by the trialsof raising children alone.My dreams grew quiet then,fading into soft echoeswithin my inner ear—sidetracked,but never denied.Now that I am older,I long for the quiet momentsand linger inside them:calming music,the language of nature,soft whispers,and the mercy of absolute stillness.I find comfort in pen and paper,in the gentle clink of glass beakers,in the pages of Merriam-Webster,and in a home overflowingwith herbs,unfolded laundry,and maternal love.The drum of lifehas finally slowed me down.I accept this.I embrace this.I give thanks for every silence,every scar,every dream that refused to die.Oh, life of mine—how I love thee!

Take me backto corded phones and no internet,to box televisions humming in the corner,to newspapers spread across the tableand magazines with pages worth keeping.Take me backto soulful songs drifting from the radio,cassette tapes turning in the deck,and Girbaud jeans worn like a badge.Take me backto knee-length bubble skirts,stacked scrunch socks,fat laces,and patent leather shoes shining beneath us.Take me backto long summer eveningswhen we stayed outside until the streetlights came on,laughing on the block,surrounded by our crews.Take me backto sweet melodies playing through my Walkman,to cool boys with pagers on their hipsand Nokia phones glowing in the dark.Take me backto when beef was truly beef,when fewer words carried more weightand fists—not bullets—settled fights.Take me backto Sundays spent all day in church,where church mothers did not come to play,preachers wore suits in eighty-degree heat,and ushers praised in spotless white gloves.Take me backto when the music made sense—when TLC told us to Creep,Aaliyah had us writing four-page letters,and everybody wanted to dance in the club.If I look back,go back,reach back far enough,I can almost touch those days.But memory softens the edges,turning wounds into warm colors.Maybe the good timeswere never the whole truth—maybe they were only beautiful momentsmasking the ugly.

She visits the beach, curling chocolate red tipped toes into the sandThe wind whipping her braids, and pulling orchids from her handPetals crushed, limp with heat, tears, and sweatWeaving a marvelous web of magic oceanic spritz and wetThe billow calls for release, the billow calls for rebirthSand coated feet leave the nurture of granular earthDown into the waves, the pressure builds like hellInto the surge she goes, releasing it all. An orgasmic exhale!The kiss of salt and sea grit grinds away until she's newPetals on the tide, a new creature of the blue

The weary traveler entered the store,Then paused like a stranger from legends of yore.He surveyed every aisle, then withdrew from the door,Like one who had crossed many mountains before.His weathered skin held the sun's earthen hue,And his scent was of wildflowers shimmering with dew.Across his broad shoulder, mud-stained and black,Hung an old, battered, leaf-covered knapsack.It carried mountain mint from a faraway glen,And mushrooms he gathered where few people had been.Twigs clung to his coat; leaves followed his stride,Like remnants of forests still walking beside.The shoppers regarded him with open disdain:"Who is this wildling who smells of the rain?"But their whispers disturbed neither spirit nor limb—The judgment of strangers was familiar to him.He passed an old woman with silver-gray hair,Then a young woman dressed in fine athletic wear.At last, he approached where the dried harvest lay—Seeds, fruits, and herbs gathered far from the day.One customer stared and, with practiced unease,Covered her face with an exaggerated sneeze.Still, the traveler reached with a calm, steady palmFor lavender, elderberry, and sweet lemon balm.Though his dust-covered hands had begun to shake,His heart remained still as a moon-shadowed lake.He dreamed of a refuge beyond crowded streets,Where sunlight, deep woods, and the wilderness meet.He carried no silver, no jewels from the past,Only a small wad of bills, worn thin to the last.The shopkeeper watched him, then ventured to ask,As the stranger stood silent, still bearing his pack:"Do you live beyond town, where the wilderness stands?"He placed the man's change in his rough, weathered hands.The traveler smiled, like the dawn over land:"I am sowing tomorrow—I live by the land."I have wandered through valleys where ancient winds roam,For the earth is my kingdom, the forest my home.What others call wild, I call sacred and grand—I carry no riches, yet I nourish the land."

Don't ask me how I knew you—I have carried your name through a long and weary road,Past the rolling hills that bent beneath sorrow,Through deep valleys where the lost kept calling,And over mountains too high for the living to climb.I came by wind, by rain, by fire, by pain,With ash in my mouth and night in my bones.So don't ask me how I knew you—Some souls are remembered before they are born.

In stone they were born,In blue sands they died.By fire, by iron,The Seven reborn to steel.

In the night, they come—silent and deadly,one with the shadows,ever watchful,ever readyto render their sweet pain.Your soul calls outinto the deep,and they are thereto answer.Oh, night—please release me.

I laid you to rest among the daisies,beneath the parched earth—beneath layers of clay,stone, tangled roots, and soil.At last, your aching bones are still.No more pain.Only peace.Sweet wind,carry you gently home.

There is no reward in honesty,No shelter in a lie;A pious road may lead to dust and despair,So, live your life free beneath the heavens,And let opinions be damned.

Sometimes we are not shown how to love,whom to love,or what love isWe wheelbarrow through lifefull of rocks, soil, and seedspushing heavy weight,desperate for connectionand companionship,just to push that wheelbarrowtoward a destination unknown.There are those who partner up-two big red wheelbarrowspushed by two weirdoswho just get each other.They start building with soil and rocks,creating a solid foundation.Then the seeds take root.What an inspiring sight.Then there's people like me.Just pushing wheelbarrows alone,adding more rocks,seeds falling off to the waysidein craggy unkempt places.Coughing on dust,behind a thin mask,dehydrated, desperate,destitute, diminished,and successfully hiding it well.