Camille Rivera
I’ve looked at the same mountain from my window
all these years, seen how green turns
brown in the heat, as it is on this afternoon.
It becomes smaller and smaller,
monsoon rains beating on soil.
Rock and pebble roll down the slopes
and I wonder if this purging is voluntary.
I remember a woman I loved once, how she was
distant and forlorn as that very mountain,
how her hair turned brown under the sun.
Do we become smaller every time love exits our lives?
The rain urges us to surrender
what keeps us rooted in the same place.
Our edges now more visible, more defined.
