Today is our first day of a new week of poetry. 

by Jose Luis Pablo

It’s summer and you think of the days
spent swatting flies and ants, knee-deep
in the wildness of the green & soil
of a garden you can never return to.

You discovered a plant by the santan
like an explorer. You held a finger to it
and in a lazy wink, it shrank inward,
retreating to a verdant temple.

Magic like this was never meant
to be uprooted and gathered in bunches,
so you mastered caress and graze.
You became responsible for a life.

Santol, rambutan, atis, macopa, prayers
of the yard fell around you
in a season that felt as quick
as its shimmer, as eternal as its heat.

You bear the shame of writing poetry,
not history, your father’s obsession.
Who will tell the story of this garden
when your nephews and nieces forget
to remind their children?

Memory curls and shortens,
like makahiya folding her bright blades,
guarding itself like a secret no one else
was meant to touch.

Photo by Pok Rie via Pexels