If I Could Not Speak

If I Could Not Speak

If I could not speak,
I would hear my garden
stall in its hum of insects
and the wind giving a voice
to rhododendron leaves.

How my breath would scathe
the inner corridors of my lungs and throat,
and the new air
mixing with what it was seconds earlier.

The thoughts that plead
for manifestation when silence
is like a shadow
under a sun-lit window.

And then I would call
the names that are lost in speech
from the recesses of my memory,
hearing each one as a story.

I would grow tired
of meaning, losing my sense
of knowing - walking
out in the garden singing
without a sound.

I Heard a Conversation

I Heard a Conversation

I heard a conversation in a language
I couldn't understand, circling in it sounds
like spices being stirred in tea,
its aroma fixating my memory on scenes
I haven't seen, as if a dream had been speaking
to me in a low-lit room, the voice rustling
the speckled, ebony cloth above.

I could have been a stranger
to the infallible words
spoken to a mother, but I know
my ignorance too well
to be fooled by meaning.

At Last

At Last

I have children
waiting in you.
This time, when the cherry blossoms
fall, we meditate like a name
remembering its sound.

We wake up for a day
without a list,
walking the streets for a piece
of our face that can't be
seen in mirrors.

One moment, you are born
with memories
lighter than wind,
and a future
as frail as blossoms.