Every day, I remember the names
of those I’ve loved, and lost:
a litany, a prayer I weave
from the threads of reminiscence,
its melody a tune, becoming
Every day, I vow to make
my own mythology–
to stand on high ground
and watch as the flood
of someone else’s disappointment
passes down below.
Every day, I surround myself
with magic, the love I carve
into my very own heart–
a result of excising, perhaps,
when everything I need
no longer is put to the flames.
Every day, I become a summer evening,
endless, joyful, enough: content
to listen as the crickets call,
darkened trees sharing secrets
among themselves until my light fades
into bright starlight, tendrils
of laughter trailing like water into
the warm embrace of night.
Lynette Mejía writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has appeared in Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Eye to the Telescope, Goblin Fruit, and many others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award. An avid gardener, she can often be found talking to trees and conspiring with roses. Find her online at www.lynettemejia.com.