Written: September 21, 2026, not for contest
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What alchemy resides within the heart,
Where every pulse can tincture blood with hue—
Now umbered by wounds of grief's old art,
Now aureate beneath a love made new.
It hoards its red summers, violet nights,
Then bleaches sorrow into winter-white;
A crystal turning grief to fractured lights,
A stained-glass soul transfigured by the night.
Some days it wears the ochre robe of doubt,
Some days the cobalt vestment of despair;
Yet dawn may coax the buried roses out
And scatter molten amber through the air.
For hearts, like skies, are never one fixed blue;
They darken, blaze, and bloom—and start anew.
isolated leaves—
Coffea shrubs reach their stems
toward sole-hung sun
java shops murmur
—misty exhales from hushed mugs
loneliness is loud
Bean's journey from upturned earth
as vast as stem to sol in want
of contentment's overflown cup.
Facing our umbered reflections,
we drink, we drown, we want to trust.
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