Where we meet

 Title: Our Own Season (or alternate: “Where We Meet”)

[Verse 1]
I come from the South, where the sun always shines,
Olive-skinned children sing rough lullabies.
Even the stones hold the heat of the day,
And the sunset whispers, “it’s time to begin.”

[Verse 2]
You come from the North, where the winter is long,
Snow hushes the voice of the aurora’s song.
You wait in the dark, with a heart full of light,
Longing for stars that dance through the night.

[Chorus]
We meet in the middle, under sky-splitting flame,
When the moon steals the sun, or a meteor came.
We plant our small hopes at the edge of the road—
Berries that bloom in the cold.
Proof that we both still bleed warm.
Proof that we both still belong.

[Verse 3]
We carry the fire from our corners of earth,
Trade southern gold for your northern mirth.
The compass was wild, but it led us true—
To a season not born until me and you.

[Final Chorus / Outro]
We meet in the middle, where the strange things begin,
Not summer, not winter, not where we’ve been.
We go on together, like stars on the run—
Creating a season that’s never been sung.

Our own season

I come from the South,
where olive-skinned children
sing with rough voices
their love for the sun—
where even the stones are warm,
and sunset signals beginning.

You come from the North,
where snow blankets the voice of the aurora,
whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on

to create our own season. whom you long to see
while you wait in the dark
through the long duration of winter.

We meet in the middle,
on the occasion of a celestial event—
an eclipse,
or beneath the thundering fear
of a fallen meteor.

We grow berries
at the edge of the road,
proof that still—
both of us carry warm blood.

And then,
we go on
to create our own season.

A Wish for Magical Mornings

I wish you some magical mornings,
when you slip into the light of day,
unknowingly performing a ritual of healing,
as body and mind spring to new life.

You hear the birds,
as if for the very first time,
their song a hymn to your awakening.

And the weary world,
so often blunt and gray,
pauses to wonder:
Where has this beauty been?

And oh, how glad we are
to see you—
reborn into this day.

Lemons and Mulberries 2

Lemons and mulberries,
a little acid to elevate
a taste for the sweet—
to remind you
that joy sometimes arrives with a sting.

The perspective you earn
from climbing trees—
beyond scraped elbows and bloodied knees—
is the raw view of courage
and the sky pressed close.

There’s a price in sharing fruit
with a friend:
a piece of yourself
passed palm to palm,
always an open hand.