UNTITLED
Not finding the grave of my parents
I came down the road of misshapened trees whose
roots, strangled, shoved up in a mass and a heave.
Earth there is parched and speaks, with an effort, of days
filled with birds, of the many shades of memorial green.
I am getting rid of some clothes that clutter my mind
with their endless stripes and ill-fitting sleeves.
Two bags-full hope that this riddance makes room
for some grammar to settle, finally, and offer the handhold
the intricate balance that aerial footing requires.
Not finding my untitled poem this morning felt like the mass
and the heave of the earth, parched but still speaking,
and it told me so.
