I am curled up in a chair in the backyard
and can't remember what day it is
but it must be Sunday because I'm praying again,
grief like a heavy wool sweater
on this warm spring day
and I am suffocating.
I take a deep breath and remember
that out here I am surrounded by life.
A soft breeze teases the trees
and the finches call out their desire,
chasing each other across the sky.
Hummingbirds drink from the indigo flowers
of the vines that have wrapped themselves
around the fence, bold and defiant.
The mourning doves coo their love song,
and bees kiss the open mouths
of bright yellow wildflowers.
All this life, all this beauty hurts
and I have to close my eyes for a moment.
Stars dot the back of my eyelids
and I am reminded of the dream I had
the night before, in which the night sky was filled
with the explosions of a million supernovae.
I want to cry thinking of all those dying stars,
of the sadness exploding all around me.
I hear laughter escaping an open window
and I open my eyes again.
They say stars are being born
in the depths of black holes
and from somewhere far away,
I hear hope calling out to me.
For now, it's just a whisper
carried on tiny bird wings.
But in time—a symphony
that will soar through the clouds.
Lisa Lerma Weber is a writer living in San Diego. Her work has appeared in Barren Magazine, Ghost City Review, Mookychick, The Wild Literary Magazine, Vamp Cat, and others. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber