Egg-yolks blooming in serenity
baba’s palms turn upwards
black dirt falling on the sun.
The fruit of baba’s hands
covered in spines
twisted but not the wicked way
that punctures skin.
Serpentine limbs extend in search of
hands to hold

I envy the stories
They tell.
Of the East
And the West.

Of bare feet,
Guava trees,
Roasted fava beans.

Of tin water pails
That held curly-haired children
To keep the dust off their feet.

“A breath, a sigh, she closes her eyes,
hearing the forest saunas around her,
yonder the sum set the sky on fire,
burning, burning,
the stars/lew higher...”

“Davidson! That tree is flying! It’s going to crash into your house,” Gary warned me. “You’re right, Mr. Franklin, and here, it’s coming in for a landing,” I replied with calm reserve.

There once was a man named Ed. Ed had a wife and three kids and worked at a very successful job. His life was perfect. But as time went on, his children grew up and went off on their own to form their own families, but soon Ed became a grandfather. And once again, life was perfect.

The sky gleamed a radiant blend of colors which reflected on the glassy ocean. The aroma of varieties of flowers fresh from the fields lingered in the air.