But I can carry flowers

I don’t often share my poems —

they usually stay quietly with me,

like seeds tucked in the dark.

But this one kept whispering for light.

It came to me in two languages,

as if one heart wasn’t enough to hold it.

So here it is,

gently placed in your hands,

with a little nudge of love that convinced me to let it go.

I loved the roads, I loved traveling, yet I always saw a glory in loving the path of my own life.

By the river or the fields, I walk, I reflect, I smile, and I whisper: what a picture, etched into my sight.

Wishing the place would pause here, so I could wander back and forth between it.

But I move on, carrying the moment with me.

In my pocket, all the moments live—folded, gathered, kept close.

My chest expands wide to embrace the world,

and yet, my hands… they can carry flowers.

At night I sit, keeping company with the moon and stars.

We tell tales no one else knows.

I take out my folded moments from my pocket

and find sorrows I carried without meaning to.

I pour them out to my moon, as if I had found an answer to what I feel—

yet when I open the answer, it is only a question.

I ask, not waiting for an answer, but yearning to feel what the answer might be.

A shooting star comes to me with a reply that settles in my heart.

And my heart whispers: we do have an answer.

I reply: Yes… yes, I can carry flowers.

And I drift sometimes into visions—

of people, of circumstances—

then I return to a path in a forest among flowers,

as though we are all walking there together.

The path carries me, the flowers accompany me.

I don’t mind what’s ahead, I don’t fear what’s beyond.

I look toward the horizon, certain that I am the path,

and that arrival is here.

So I don’t mind—

I can carry flowers.

Before the river I lingered in silence.

I reflected and saw more than the river showed.

Dreams appeared, the past,

a palm tree reminded me: I will always return.

I took its picture with my eyes beside the moon,

told it I would keep it safe in the box of moments.

Then a gate opened in the river,

and I walked upon the water toward it.

I passed by—

I saw my grandmother weaving a garment,

crying at times, laughing at times,

her eyes afraid of letting go.

Then I found my father, sitting in silence, troubled, sorrowful.

In his eyes I saw his fear of not having a place—

a fear he would never speak.

Then I passed my mother—angry, anxious, afraid.

Breaking things, sometimes crying, sometimes swaying,

sometimes telling stories in a poem that held her stance:

"Let us pretend everything is fine,

but everyone must pay the price."

And they all stood before me asking:

Will you carry the stones?

Will you bear the cost?

I did not know what cost,

but I answered: No. I will not carry stones, nor pay prices.

But…

but I can carry flowers

If this poem touched something in you, you may also find resonance in The Courage to Be Real.

Thank you for walking this path with me, for carrying these words as you carry your own flowers. 🌸

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