I miss the kitchen window of my first home, where I could look out over my family garden and talk to the plants. I pretended they stretched up just to hear me better, that my voice was as good as a watering. I pretended they could spin my stories to sugar, and that my thoughts would become so fable that the leaves would wear my words and call it vein.
I pretend my own veins, green as spring, are letters from a language forgotten. Letters my ancestors snuck under my skin so I would always share the sweetness of living.
