September of the tropics

I slept on the first morning and woke up on the 27th day. Time flies seems like an overused line. But how else could I say the passing of September? The plants I tried to rear last year are now vitamins on the dried potted soil. Death is silent. Usually.Autumn is a season I have… Continue reading September of the tropics

talking to myself: a wayra

hush. whispers the moonto my walking worry. shh.shallow faith, sink and savorsuch unsure shore. in your night dress, count holy graces. hush. — 11.19.2021©2021 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.Photo via UnsplashThis work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. For dVerse: Poetry Form: The Wayra - Thank you, Grace, for featuring my poem there and for levelling… Continue reading talking to myself: a wayra

cloud’s sunburn

Three chili plants remaining, I once thought they would succumb after I almost drowned them with neem oil because of pesky ants. Together in a pot, amidst many stormy nights, it's always a surprise when I see them breathing in silent delight. Yes, with wrinkled leaves, but at least, still alive.But these clouds are clearly… Continue reading cloud’s sunburn