The Wind

Pieces of us are found in the wind —
Beautiful flowers from our garden,
each laced with sickle hooks
to pull you to its fragrant buds,
no longer bloom.

While rain drowns nature’s purity
and brittle roots naked beyond the soil,
Petals still dance around
the grand sepulchers you built
out of poignant affection.
Both eventually turn into dust
and are blown away,
turning into clouds of
dirt and debris.

Tornados will dissipate
Gardens will be built again
Flowers will bloom once more
Graves will be dug,
but the effluvia from springs past
sometimes fill my lungs,
coming and going like a summer breeze,

and they suffocate me.

Writer: When Christin Caparas isn’t going through an existential crisis, she’s a student and tutor at Fullerton College.

Artist: Marlon Rizo is a student and photographer influenced by art and visual storytelling.



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