There are no blooms on the hibiscus
On the patio. It doesn’t get
Enough sun. The shadow of the house
Blocks it most of the day, but right now
It’s a mass of bright green leaves that make
Me feel hopeful somehow, whatever
That means. These days, I’m feeling my age.
I look around at my books on their
Shelves, the paintings and the photographs,
Even the espresso machine in
The kitchen, and worry this is all
There is to a life: cookbooks where the
Recipes seem too complicated,
But the pictures of the dishes are
Beautiful, inherited Limoge
Porcelain never used, leather bound
Editions unread. The dog asleep
Under the table lets out a howl,
Then another. He’s caught up in some
Ancestral dream, chasing a wild boar
In the woods of East Texas or fields
Of Johnson grass higher than his head.
That animals dream is something else
That makes me hopeful. Heraclitus
Distinguished the world we share when we’re
Awake from the private world of dreams.
He said, “Follow the common.” But I’m
Not so sure. Some mornings, I wake up
Early and look at you, asleep still,
Maybe on another continent,
Walking by the Rio Cali or
Making breakfast in your apartment
Or studying downstairs in that room
With the terrazzo floor at the house
In Colombia where you grew up,
Smells of sancocho cooking upstairs.
You tell me that in your dreams sometimes
I treat you badly, leave you on your
Own at a party or disappear
Into a crowd on a busy street.
I’m sorry. Tomorrow night, I’ll try
To behave better, take you out for
Coffee at Café Macondo in
San Antonio or for a walk
Up the hillside, until a crack of
Sunlight returns you to our common
Waking. This also makes me hopeful,
Though I don’t know why. Whatever hope
Means, it’s not just a synonym for
Some idea made of words. It’s a
Feeling made of light on hibiscus
Leaves. It disappears and then returns,
Like a private world shared between us,
Your hand resting on the tablecloth.
Published in South Poetry Journal, Issue #39, Nov. 2025.
