pathways
may the winding roads lead you.
the tumultuous path that you dread,
with each step you must take,
you tread lightly and carefully, like a feather.don’t fear the roots in the ground,
they’re only lessons to be learned.
the leaves that crunch beneath you,
they won’t nip at you as you pass.whether you turn left or right,
whether your pathways are rugged or refined,
you’ll reach new heights and places,
you’ll graze the sun with all of your ambition.find the peace you’re to be graced with.
the journey may not be short-lived,
as a short trip is one short of love and laughs
although the end is far, may hope light your path.
may the winding roads lead you.
the tumultuous path that you dread,
with each step you must take,
you tread lightly and carefully, like a feather.don’t fear the roots in the ground,
they’re only lessons to be learned.
the leaves that crunch beneath you,
they won’t nip at you as you pass.whether you turn left or right,
whether your pathways are rugged or refined,
you’ll reach new heights and places,
you’ll graze the sun with all of your ambition.find the peace you’re to be graced with.
the journey may not be short-lived,
as a short trip is one short of love and laughs
although the end is far, may hope light your path.
eat well
grandma always gave me chopsticks first,
paired with a warm bowl of fluffed rice.
she’d always have an assortment of dishes,
each cooked equally with love and skill.as the steamed eggs were steaming,
and the piping hot soup piped,
grandma would always sit at the table last,
picking at her bowl until i picked food first.her tired eyes always gleamed with faint joy,
through our quiet conversations over meals,
and with every hearty bite we shared;
all as her hairs grew as pale as her white floral apron.grandma was always here with me,
until the food at the table was eaten,
and boxes were packed full of her things,
and she was packed away with them.and suddenly the kitchen stopped cooking,
the soup stopped simmering,
the steamed sea bass stopped steaming,
and the stir fries stopped sizzling,the chopsticks would remain in the drawers,
and the rice never seemed to leave the bag.
the table grew even quieter in my solitude,
and it grew cold, missing her warm meals.
grandma always gave me chopsticks first,
paired with a warm bowl of fluffed rice.
she’d always have an assortment of dishes,
each cooked equally with love and skill.as the steamed eggs were steaming,
and the piping hot soup piped,
grandma would always sit at the table last,
picking at her bowl until i picked food first.her tired eyes always gleamed with faint joy,
through our quiet conversations over meals,
and with every hearty bite we shared;
all as her hairs grew as pale as her white floral apron.grandma was always here with me,
until the food at the table was eaten,
and boxes were packed full of her things,
and she was packed away with them.and suddenly the kitchen stopped cooking,
the soup stopped simmering,
the steamed sea bass stopped steaming,
and the stir fries stopped sizzling,the chopsticks would remain in the drawers,
and the rice never seemed to leave the bag.
the table grew even quieter in my solitude,
and it grew cold, missing her warm meals.
then slowly I began picking at my food,
picking with nobody to pick something first;
so I picked nothing during dinner at all.
I know she’d hope I’d eat well.
all those letters sent to a forgotten address
i wrote you a few days back.
my quills have all been worn,
not from writing, rather from neglect.
the mailbox has not creaked in some time,
yet the screws are hardly intact,
they’ve rusted far too long, leaving their drives.
write to me when you’ve found the time,
let me know if you got my letters.
…or perhaps you changed your mailing address.