POETRY

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The clock bleeds silence through the hollow air,
Its hands like shadows clawing at despair.
Each tick a whisper of what cannot remain,
A fleeting joy entwined with hidden pain.

The glass grows dim with breath that once was bright.

A candle falters, yielding to the night.
Time does not heal, it carves and leaves its mark,
An endless script etched deep within the dark.
Yet in its ruin, love may still abide —
A fragile flame the years cannot divide.

To be still...

Listening and waiting.

Keeping your mind silent.

You are stillness in motion.

Breathing in.

Breathing out.

Being conscious yet not aware.

You are stillness in motion.

The worlds continues.

Sounds evolve.

You hear but not listen.

You are stillness in motion. 

Be in peace.

Settle in your space.

Letting go.

You are stillness in motion. 

I lay the past to rest beneath a quiet sky,
a version of me who once clung too tightly
to fear, to doubt, to what-ifs.
There is no anger here — only gratitude,
for every scar that taught me how to mend.

I speak softly to the shadow I was:
thank you for surviving.
Thank you for holding me upright
when the wind would have swallowed me whole.
But I cannot stay with you.
Your lessons have ripened,
and I must harvest what remains.

Now, with slow and steady hands,
I build again.
Each breath a brick,
each step a seed.
I trade shame for patience,
and wear kindness as my armor.

This new self rises not from forgetting,
but from remembering with gentleness.
I do not erase the path behind me —
I walk forward because of it.
And in this growing light,
I learn what it means
to be whole.

O breath of the high desert,
I feel you stirring at the edge of summer’s heat—
a whisper threading through piñon and juniper,
cool fingers brushing the mesas awake.

The Sandias blush earlier now,
as if shy with the thought of change,
their granite bones catching fire
in the last long stretches of evening light.

Hot-air balloons rise like prayers at dawn,
a thousand colors stitched against the turquoise sky,
their silence broken only by flame and cheer—
an autumn sky quilted in wonder.

Chiles roast on every corner,
green fire and smoke curling into the air,
the scent a spell of hunger and home,
a promise of hearth and table.

Cottonwoods prepare their golden hymn,
lining the Rio Grande with light
that ripples and bends
like sun caught in prayer.

You arrive not with thunder
but with hush—
a thinning of air,
a longer shadow on the dirt road,
a silence that waits to be filled
by migrating wings overhead.

O Autumn,
in New Mexico you are not a season,
but a blessing—
a reminder carved into earth and sky
that even endings burn with beauty.

October arrives like a whisper through the orchard; soft, deliberate, cloaked in the scent of ripened things. The air hums low with endings and beginnings, as if the earth itself exhales after a long season of growing. Trees undress slowly, scattering memories like gold coins at our feet, and somewhere between dusk and dream, the veil thins. The world trembles in that tender space where shadows remember their bodies.

The moon swells; round, generous, and ancient. It spills its silver harvest across fields and rooftops, illuminating the quiet faces of pumpkins, apples, and those who still believe in the turning of unseen hands. Under its glow, the night feels both sacred and near. We speak softer, walk slower, as if afraid to disturb the spirits gathering in the wind.

Autumn teaches us that beauty lingers in decay, that light bends sweetest when it is about to fade. October, with her cool breath and candlelit heart, reminds us to gather what remains; to harvest warmth, memory, and hope before the frost takes hold.

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