a field of red

i walked through a field

not long ago, felt fingers of grass

grab at the back of my knees.

i watched my red-headed abuela

pick wildflowers to fill

an empty vase,

much like i pluck words

to feed a hungry page—

grasping at severed strings

of wilting memories.

wires up above glinted

in a dying sunlight,

as the river leapt over its tracks

below a quilt of dandelion seeds.

the last of the birds singing

their wavering song,

my abuela waved the moon

into the sky, dusting

the pollen off her palms

in its Sea of Nectar.

darkened mountains peppered

with jagged trees like teeth, nibbled

at a stray cloud, drenched in stars

that had fallen not long ago.

blackened grape vines choking

a silver fence lined the path we took.

if you follow the grape vines home,

they will lead you to the sunlight

that my red headed abuela hides in her bun.