My mind has rippled with thinking of all that I lack
but stills like an ocean at twilight caressing a kayak.
Branches sometimes snag a wind-blown kite
and apparently snare as well a plane in flight.
Vines climb a wall expressively – graffiti
that is drawn to light as if by art or deity.
Might we, earthly people, of varied shades and sizes,
be otherworldly beings in skin-tight, flesh disguises?
“Though infernal dry spells have attacked us,
we flourish, growing sinuously, like a cactus.”
You may be terrified of spiders, yet
you love a web, the playground net.
Finding adventurous fun, even in a mesh,
with playfulness you see the world afresh.
You are called a weed. That is a great offense
to you, lovely dandelion, entangled in a fence.
“My limbs, when they are cut or if they snap,
bleed just like yours, except my blood is sap.”
Just when an asphalt lot looked lifeless, stark,
I discovered you growing, shaping a living arc.
Happiness turns luminous despite challenges piling:
delight shines from your faces through your smiling.
Mario A. Pita