Poetry by Gina Crespo
Cardinals and mockingbirds perch
on the dense bark of an orchid tree.
The one outside my childhood window.
The one that left me bruised
like decomposing mangoes
in the springtime sun
or featherless birds displaced
from their nest.
Crumpled pages covered in smiley faces
and crude butterflies
lay next to worn sketchbooks.
Worlds were once created
with scented markers.
Tree trunks smelled of cinnamon
and synthetic lemon looked like a happy sun.
But now viridescent grass has been replaced
by scorched, dry earth.
Summer has claimed the fantasy of spring.
Attempting to retrace my path,
I find my footsteps have been washed away
by time.
Time is a wave,
monstrous and unrelenting,
continuously knocking down the sandcastles
I try to rebuild.
Looking up at clouds in endless cerulean,
it feels as though I could fall into the sky.
