Of Separation

When it rains, the earth speaks of preparation.
I carry another ruin out of this carved
exterior to the meadow’s belly,
press it until it’s completely one of the roots.
The sickness unfolds through the field,
wildflowers wilting into sand,
into infinite nothingness.
Dusk returns to me, to us,
the banished language of passing
from its homeland—
Of separation.

Dying—nights mantled with snow—
is isolation, a foggy trail
inside the wilderness one has lost.

My coming to the depths of this place
aches my shoulders. I wander
searching for a lake,
to wash the blue fire off
eating my dress’ hem as my eyes wells up
with the fever blowing along dead insects.
Bamboos bows sideways forming
a misty door to somewhere that calls me
but I refuse. Instead, I found my feet
sinking in quicksand of wisteria
with no one, no other,
to hold the orchard I grew in.

By Kari Astillero

Biography:

I am Kari Astillero, a Filipina residing in a city of busy people somewhere in Philippines and a Journalism major. Mesmerized with the universe and a star-stuff who is in love with poetry & nature, I wish to have my own published book of poetry someday.  A non-conformist and mostly alone drinking coffee while reading, writing or thinking (sometimes daydreaming).