little flames and evergreens

xxii. being taken out from the holy book, but remembered forever

the leaves of weeping willows
drip off in the fall
like their tears if they could cry
over their short lives
or being taken out of the holy book
because someone mistook them for poplars.

you, although weeping, never cried.
you kept graceful and ornamental
when you knew you’d die at 17
despite your spectacular growth.
God saw all you did to bloom
and all you were going to do
to make autumn come early.
you are written in His book,
rooted like you were in the parks,
yet unlike the parks that lost their beauty
when we lost you,
you are forever in His memory.

if only i got to say this (and maybe
it wouldn’t have changed anything)
i wish you could hear
that i always thought the willows were beautiful
even when they cried.

xxiii. deciduous or evergreen? my flame doesn't know the difference

we get it, i am a tree.
it's the only thing that makes sense, and yet
while i frame my self-loathing battle
as something i win every day,
i am more deciduous than ever green.

you replace my name
with the cool-tongued adjective
because in your eyes
i am teeming with life.
you look at my innards like sprawling land
filled with pines and cypresses.
the snow glimmers atop emerald leaves
that look marvelous when painted.
but maybe,
just maybe,
you’re color blind.

no matter the ways you love,
the seasons still affect me.
no matter the green you saw,
i am just a lonely oak.
there is a weight settled in my undereyes,
my chest,
my throat,
that make my leaves tremble and fall
in trepidation that you’re not really
seeing me.

i can be green, though.
if spring is nice to me
and i have you during summer,
i can be mistaken for being like this
year-round.
and i guess there’s a certain beauty
to the way the sun catches my sunset leaves,
leaving murals on the ground
like stained glass windows.
and even my scraggly branches
have a poise to them
with the snow balancing, smooth,
still twinkling like the early winter night stars.

my love, is that what’s beautiful?
the ever changing nature of self?
no matter what i am,
do you call me your evergreen
just to call me yours?
i couldn’t believe
someone could love me in my winter
but maybe,
just maybe,
you can love me more than i hate myself.

xxiv. call me an arsonist so our names start with the same letter

to be considered an arsonist
you must have set property on fire
on at least two counts.
everyone gets one free pass.
the doctors and police of the world
knew that fire it too alluring
to not strike up at least one.

i caught wind of your light once,
and i’ll fall for it as many times as it takes
to be convicted of my crimes.
i’m chasing your warmth
to take the cold out of my fingertips.
i need you to engulf me,
hold me close while i’m grabbing for you
as a mere combustion phenomena.
i’m close, though.
i can feel it.
i’ll continue to set something alight
just to feel your warm breath
make my face glow.

and i still can’t believe
i also make your heart burst into flames.
the sky burns brighter when we’re together
and i hope they consider that
when i face my charge.
i don’t want to be anything other
than an arsonist.

xxv. i can't wait to see him in my shirts and hoodies

your sweater is caught
in that cottonwood
you climbed a few months ago.
it has no resemblance to the fibre
that was picked, spun, and weaved
into something to trap your heat close.
however, they share the same name.
and there it goes,
waving in the wind
that saps the feeling from my nose.
if i were to barely look at you
with the slightest shiver in my frame,
you’d scale that tree
to snatch the stolen sweater back
from the fingers of the twigs.
your face flushes like the pinprick i get
when sewing the holes the branches left
when you see that we’re finally sharing comfort.
you can bestow upon me
that flannel that saw you through
breakdowns in your car and i
can loan you the hoodie that hugged my shoulders
when i was yelled at by my mom.
and maybe these pieces of cotton
won’t carry the weight of those memories anymore
once we’ve replaced them with
the essence of our heat and scent
between one another.

xxvi. mark 11:12-24

i’m standing just outside of bethany,
my leaves standing tall on display
during this beautiful nisan day.
my leaves are early, but my fruit is late.

i’m approached by a man,
hungry and disappointed in my lack of figs.
so he said to me: “let no one
eat fruit from you ever again.”
and as he and his friends left
a leaf of mine started to brown.

perhaps it was a coincidence,
but with each step the sandaled man took to jerusalem
a new leaf died.
my roots shriveled as the sun moved
from east to west.
a little dove came to me
she said she just escaped from the temple.
the sandaled man ran out merchants
and the priests were seeking to kill him
at him proclaiming all these things.

as the sun set on the beautiful nisan day
i was just about gone.
in the early hours of next
the man and his friends came upon me once again.
in my dying moments
i was used as a lesson in faith.
while although outwardly precocious,
i bore no fruits.
i was a parallel in israel’s deceptive appearance,
but i didn’t know that.
i was trying to grow.

xxvii. had we let you be, do you think your leaves would still fall?

there we were in february,
teetering between winter and spring
based on a groundhog’s fear of his shadow.
the sun is out a little longer
before our clocks have to spring ahead.
the limbo between the frigidity of winter
and the reborn life of spring
is easy to get lost in but
no matter the reality of the season
it’s time to tap you.

honestly,
i think they call it tapping
to cover up the holes drilled in your belly
and the vacuum pumps splintered into you
to collect the starches and sugars
that were supposed to be a springtime reward.

you stopped crying a while ago,
but it still runs down the back of your throat.
the sap tears aren’t enough for us.
we just have to concentrate your suffering.
you’ve been stolen from
long before the settlers came
and made you cry on command.
not only would the insects attack you,
but we did, too.

maples aren’t poetry,
we just pretend they are.
all that syrup wasn’t always
thick and sweet.
it was just sap.

xxviii. it's just like them to wander off in the evergreen fog

its been over a year
since i stepped into the evergreen fog
to be swallowed by the haze
and turned into folklore,
like la llorona
but more pathetic.
i was just a woman who couldn’t find love
so i had to become immune to it.
the walk to the heart where the river runs
is made up of low-lying clouds
creating ghosts to welcome me.

its been over a year
since i dipped my fears
in the river styx,
hardening them to my skin.
if i could reject all i ever wanted
i’d be immune to the reality
that i wasn’t meant to be loved.
the water makes my face taut
and my hair dances in the current.
the splashing as i come up
and the wind pricking my skin
harmonize with the leaves.

wading down the river
another is baptizing himself at the mouth.
playing with the water,
chasing the little boy within himself
that was lost to drown to hades.
the singing by the brooke gets louder
telling me to stay like stone,
but i can’t help but to kneel with the boy.
leaves drift down the bank
and i wonder if he’s real
or just an another apparition
that made me want to disappear here
in the first place.
the mist blurs my vision
like tears i didn’t know i had anymore.

i may have dipped by body,
but my heart did not callus.
its been over a year
since i found him at the heart of the forest
and the switch between just some guy
and my world
was eerily subtle.
just like the densing fog
in the evergreen forest.

xxix. like prometheus getting his liver eaten, i'll love you every day

we’ll be in the kitchen we made
with our favorite songs playing from my phone.
i’ll mix the batter
while you grease the pans.
i’ll smile at you to make you warm
like the oven increasing in temperature.
dance with me in the kitchen.
hug me while i sit on the countertops
so my chin can rest upon your head,
share my heat and laugh with me
as the brownies rise.

let me hold your face in my hands
warmed up by the fireplace
and let them still be colder
than your red blush.
even with my frostbitten fingers
i make you come alive.
let me suffocate you in my arms
till your body is fuzzy and your smile
is heat-set in place.

we’ll sit on opposite sides of the living room.
(i’m stuck on ways to say
i love you
a million different ways
and you’re practicing our song
on guitar.)
the ties of wood scented candles
makes me feel you’re nestled right up next to me
because i am the fire that makes you cozy.
i’m honored in having this part:
to give you the love you deserve.

xxx. i'll see you in august. i promise, my little flame

august born.
named after a small,
slow-growing,
evergreen shrub.
yet, the laurels of victory
passed my head over.
everyone around me
gets their flowers and crowns
when i get the legend
of being inhabited by
heavenly fire demons.

august born.
named after the fiery heat
of the last month of summer.
destructive, yet beautiful.
chaotic, yet calming.
fire could not graze
upon laurels on an altar
and lightning from jupiter
could not cast its hand upon me.

this is the last time
i will write about having lost you.
we will see august once more
and be crowned victorious
with my namesake on our heads.
did you know our month even exists
because augustus was following
in his great-uncle’s footsteps?
our story’s parts have stretched
all the way to ancient rome.

i will catch fire in my arms
and crackle louder than caesar’s screams.
i’ll show them they’re right.
laurels really are inhabited
by heavenly fire demons.
and i wouldn’t give them up
for the world.

This was such a fun NaPo to read along with! Big congrats to reaching 30 -- also that final one??! *chef's kiss*~!