Spring. A reluctant poem.

I have always been an avid reader of poetry. When I was little I was the only kid in my class excited when we had to recite poems in front of everyone. I haven’t forgotten a verse of any of them. When I was fifteen and my godson was born the happiest and calmest baby ever, I used to sit by his crib and read him Lorca. I then proceeded to do the same when I was pregnant, talking to a growing belly, probably looking a bit insane to anyone watching. Once born, my babies got the same treatment, a few pages at a time.

In spite of my love for it, I have never shared my poetry, unless you count the literature magazine published in my high school a million years ago. I never show it to anyone, and only a couple of people know I write it.

Carpe Diem, our high school magazine at Sagrado Corazón, and my first editing job.
Carpe Diem, our high school magazine at Sagrado Corazón, and my first editing job.

Ironically, that is how I started writing, when I was a kid. A kid kid, not a teenager by any means. But I have always felt very shy about it because I put no effort on it. I don’t work on it, I don’t develop it, I don’t sit and think and write. It just comes and I jot it down, on paper, napkins, my iPhone… Any surface goes, I guess. It kind of happens. I can go two years without writing a verse, and then I write quite a bit for a couple of months. It is moody, and unstructured, and a little bit chaotic. It is inconsistent, all over the place, and probably not good. Despite that, I barely edit it for typos. Because of that, I have never posted it anywhere.

But I like how it feels, and I especially like how I feel after I write it. It always seems like I just lifted a weight off my shoulders.

And today, maybe because of the weather, I feel brave enough to post a tiny bit of it.


Signs of Spring. In January.



Bare legs.

A cropped top. Maybe two.

Everyone smiling.

People, throngs of people, just being


Someone sitting on the damp

patio of a coffee shop,

reading a book

and sipping a cup of tea.



Birds. Chirping.

Happier people.

Walking on the street,

peeling one layer at a time:





until you walk with an open jacket,

just to feel the wind on your skin.

Open windows.

Those signs that tell you to watch,

icicles falling.


And a yearly renewed appreciation.

Blurry commute
Blurry commute

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