The rough drafts of two poems

[taratemima]

I know you in that dress
colored like the peacock feather's eye
searched for you everywhere,
but never seen you.

I know you with that hair
curling down like falling ocean horses
mediated on you,
but never seen you.

Dark and light,
thought and form,
I just cannot touch you.


Seed of Abraham,
just call me a hybrid
Mendel was not known
in the Iron Age,
nor the impact
of a one-god belief.

Much like the peapod seeds,
every so often,
the progeny recalls the distant relative.

Heliotrope,
me,
on the other edge of
the world-garden,
how did I end up here,
in times where everything
is on the edge of falling
like trellis heavy with
virus-infected buds?

Is this madness,
reaching forward,
toward the sun
to get out of withering
roots getting chocked by
other plants,
feeling ashamed of my flowers and leaves,
not enough or too much.

Would my parents be surprised
of my traits?
Reject?

If I believe God created everything,
then I must believe God is in everything,
even struggle.
Shadow only comes
when there is light.