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there are friends who
comfort us during the thunderstorm.

but then there are friends who
comfort us during the thunderstorm---

and shelter us from the rain
and cover our ears from the noise

and ask us if we are ok after the storm passes.

cherish those friends who both experience the thunderstorm
and wait until the sky returns to peace.

a thunderstorm stands no chance against
a lighting-love that strikes

before thunder welds a single decibel.

:::

when we convince ourselves

we cannot overcome the pains of our past,

it is as if we are bees who have punctured ourselves

with our own stinging-needle.

lying on our backs and crushing our wings,

there is a field that is not being pollinated.

flowers are starving. their nectar is growing sour.

in the midst of our pain, we attempt to fly into water,

into a soda can, into anything to help us heal.

supposedly, there was such a bee who stung herself

so badly she could not even fly from the hive.

in her desperation and despair,

she flipped over and dove into the sweet well

of a honeycomb she filled a week prior.

and to her astonishment,

the throbbing stopped immediately!

her wings released like an umbrella,

and her strength came back to her!

that afternoon, she pollinated an entire forest of magnolias.

when she came back to the hive,

she told the entire hurting colony

they should dive into their honeycomb

to heal themselves.

her story, flamboyant and inspiring,

convinced the hurting bees;

one-by-one, the hurting bees

bravely dove into their own honey and became healed.

from there, they pollinated an entire ecosystem.

     now, a year later,

     on the eve of the speech that saved the colony

     and the ecosystem, the colony holds a formal ceremony

     and crowns the bee, Queen of the hive.

:::

firstly, if i were a smarter poet,

i would write something like this:

"Positano, you cut the words from my throat
like the rungs of a latter---one-by-one;

as they try to climb to my mouth,
they fall back into my stomach and stay there.

You, are a poem manifested."

excuse me Positano,
as i attempt to describe you
for it will be ignorant and unsatisfactory.

unfortunately, i wrote this instead:

air, like a thick cream---only that cream is wine,
a dark, earthy merlot;
every inhalation puts my throat and lungs
on the edge of asphyxiation;
depriving of oxygen and breathing something
kissed with a moisture and fragrance
similar to a rose recently misted in a greenhouse.
the people here have drunk this merlot for so long,
they slur their words like the bow of a violin
that has yet to be lifted from its strings.

from afar,
the town morphs into the lost wings of an angel;
they floated down from heaven and were forgotten
on the Lattari mountain side---eternally spread open.

on this boat i am surrounded by a palate of Persian blue;
in the older depths, i see an Oxford blue and
the younger depths, new to their blueness, reveal a teal blue
protected by calcareous arms.

its food, set back in small cobble stone streets
and alongside the main roads,
is without preservatives but preserves one's hunger;
pinched with fresh lemon juice from one of many lemon tree farms
and swollen in simple ingredients with extra virgin olive oil;
i am yet again deprived of oxygen and breathing another aroma.

through the town, buildings are seduced
by the climbing caress of Wisteria's touch;
look up and one is covered with its vivacious purple
love, grace, and mysterious beauty.
it seems the people did not use sunset colors to paint their homes;
they, themselves, captured the sunset and never let it go.
the result is a dusk that only reflects off of the passengerside mirrors
of those driving towards the sister place, Amalfi.

the slight inclination and declination of the streets
create a soul death trap;
it is made easier to walk down into its mysticism
and much harder to walk up and leave it.
more so,
one's hands may carry the additional weight of hand painted glass---
whose colors and lines parallel a tranquility and patience
remaining from the city's birth.

i left Positano reminding myself i have a home.