when wildflowers grow on walls

The cheery wind kites strung along the colorful front porch of the pre-school whipped around teasingly in the lazy morning breeze, and the cardinal fluttered to a resting spot on the branch of a speckled cedar tree. She was gazing at the cozy white building, with its quiet joy and red, green, yellow lined windows and doorways with a sort of soft longing, dreamy eyes smiling beneath the swoop of dusty brownish bangs. The candy-striped laughter of children seemed to echo off the chain links, the fenced off play area full of plastic novelties, shiny slides, trinkets, baubles, and hiding places. Lupita had never seen them outside, but the cardinal had, and he bristled and lifted his wings in sunny memory of their round, puerile merriment, relishing in his own observance of the similarities in her pigtailed buoyancy, rainbow earrings dangling with pride and aligned with her cotton candy lips. Her hips were swinging with a particularly noticeable gaiety, and his heart swelled as he watched her slowly savor her morning toast, imagining he was the sprouted grains dissolving on her lush, pink tongue. A sigh of breath left his beak and blended with the balmy air as he surveyed her, seeing her sink into fancies with a recognizable but fresh-faced bounce in her step. The cardinal had followed her in flight from the moment she crossed the threshold, the cracked terra-cotta-rose stone entryway of the little cabin nestled in the woods she now called home. As she crossed the warming pavement and patches of new spring grass, beginning to grow distant enough that he could no longer see the shine of stretching sun in her glossy black orbs of her sunglasses, he unfolded his amber-red feathered arms and slid back into the wind sprays, catching a current that sent him coasting in the wake of her wild mustang grape skin and pumpkin spice scent. She did not look at him, but he was always with her, and she was aware, and humming for him again.

He debated settling himself directly in her path, lighting upon the tops of the blooming magnolias alongside the little hopping robin, or perhaps in the bubbling greenery of the St. Augustine lining the sides of the sea of cement where her feet padded deliberately, tucked inside teal knee highs and slip ons. But Lupita was looking at the dandelions, and he loathed the thought of interrupting her, because he knew the saffron flowers represented hope to her. He saw the sparkle of meaning stir deep inside of her and span her golden face, and wished he could be soaring instead through the valleys and mountain torrents of her mind.

The little bird was puffy with poise and pride as he looked on, watching the involuntary practiced ease with which she tucked the edges of her skull bandanna in as she passed the coin-operated Laundromat with the chipped 24 hour sign in the wide windows. She was seductive in even the smallest of gestures, confident and yet unaware of her own grace, even in clumsy moments. And as for the cardinal- he was quite simply the epitome of agile propriety,a cultivated picture of meteoric beauty and song, transient yet constant, mellifluous and beyond brimming with harmonies of the earth and still, natural serenity.

Lupita stopped suddenly in her journey, appearing to sense some presence abruptly, and she turned on her heel to survey the open air and areas spanning her line of sight. Her face was curious, contemplative, and she removed her sunglasses so as to scan more effective, blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the light filtering through the scarce puffs of cloud in the cerulean skies. The cardinal became swiftly self conscious of his impertinent shadowing, and swooped to land amongst some foliage near the Cavalry Chapel of the Springs. He admired her from afar as she shaded her inquisitive chestnut eyes and tugged a little on her plaid shorts in befuddlement, turning to face first the rise of the pure white cathedral steeple, then the dark red brick of the post office with its protective lining of stately palm trees, waving their fronds in the brilliance of ultraviolet light. A slight smile curved her lips in bemused confusion, but her eyelashes fluttered upwards towards the heavens with a tinge of knowing. She returned the sunglasses to their rightful position perched upon her bejeweled nose, and reassumed her steady pace, in the search for iced green tea to soothe away the late March heat. The cardinal followed soon behind, eager to soak in ever more, to revel in her circle of warmth.

His blood rushed faster as he beheld the curve of her bare breasts beneath the paper-thin fabric of her vibrant summer tee, her taut, bronze legs reflected in the glass of the dance studio's doorway as she passed. He fought the humid gusts and watched her pause to debate purchasing a daily paper, as she bit her lip in distraction but soon thereafter remembered her purpose, stride picking up pace as she scrutinized the surrounding range, hoping her bank just so happened to reside nearby. A young man glanced up from the papers he was deliberating intently as they crossed paths, then returned his gaze wearily back to his study materials with a steady focus, and the cardinal tittered as Lupita whispered to herself in his passing "It's in the bag," and helped herself to a giggle.

void upon void upon void

After pre-grinding the morning's quality coffee he would lock all the doors in his cozy cabin, one by one with care and practiced ease, to keep the murderers out. A thick and sweet woodsy smell like burning autumn leaves would hang and hover in the warm air, draped like freshly made sheets across the heated breeze from the window unit that stirred strands of her pigtails as she watched him move,
like ripples across sighing brooks from the skipped rocks of lovers picnicking in the sun.
He was a hummingbird. And she loved to see him flitting, flying,
frenzying from one flower to another,
always moving,
moving mountains with that bright eyed wide smile she so adored.
It would flash across his features from time to time,
weary in the late hours but still shining and prominent and slightly knee-weakening even.
The momentary gleam of pure white in that sea of scruff would make her toes curl with joy,
hibernating within her fuzzy house slippers, chipped orange polish slowly cracking off with the passage of time.
His flannel coat would hang haphazardly over the rocking chair and the scuffle of his bare feet across the faded browns and navys of the oriental rug would make her feel at home,
and whenever her lips parted to murmur these things out loud she found herself kissing him instead.
And he knew.
He told her stories about flying refrigerators and the children of old women beating the piss out of salesman,
as she laid curled up on his chest giggling and grinning girlishly in giddiness,
and he knew. He knew, and so did she, that night.
It hit her headfirst like a soccer ball gone astray and aimed wrong and yet just right,
straight to the side of the head and pit-stop at her fluttering heart.
Christmas lights outside in the trees, lit into the night, dangling from the branches and swaying lightly and carefree in March's easy, breezy, cool wind song,
and she knew.
Mug lifted to mouth with the straw bracelet hand, curled toes, and vertigo, and then-
this strange glow. Welcome and bubbling, seeping and melting, spreading and blossoming, burgeoning and birthing...yes, it was there now, to stay.
Irises in the window, half-wilted but still regal, facial hair in her toothbrush bristles, and she liked it there more and more every day.

"The ghosts are back," he whispered.







She carefully unfolded the parchment-like paper with her rainbow gloves, wary and eager.
The ripe smell of fresh strawberries coming from her bag made her stomach grumble impatiently. "Shhhhhh," she said. And then she read.




His words on her windshield, his scent all over and creeping into her head,
and outside air was like water once again, she was breathing deep and drinking it all in with no lack of fervent gratitude: the Universe was swelling for them.

There were promises quietly lying in his steps and spring could be seen in the little white buds gathering in the bushes lining the avenue, the ones with plastic bags tangled in the branches. She didn't mind that she came home smelling like fish and chips, or corned beef and cabbage, or fried corn dodgers, grease smudged in the denim wrapped around her thighs; she didn't mind that her Spanish was too rusty for her preference, or that she would sometimes wake in the night choking on air, sweaty and feeling nervous, as though she had been fleeing, or dying, because she could share dairy-less ice cream with him as he weaved tales of the gem of his childhood- her favorite reservoir of sweet, soft power, wistful and rustic and the most delightful feast of memories her mind had ever devoured. In the wee hours of the morning, smears of chocolate would appear across the white and shiny polished surface of his keyboard and would later leave the residue of laughter in his mouth while she dreamed of making love to him in the river waters after dark, or behind the dunes while the salted moonswept waves washed away their cynical sides and happily scratched their sun browned skin with seaweed.

Her bathroom smelled like Spanish Amber and cedar, and her mind was filtering images she could barely fathom, torrents upon torrents of aquatic ponderings, fresh and sparkling from the aquifer and pushed through the natural springs like thin honey. She would run through the old, familiar neighborhood with a thick head of joy, over the rusting and crumbling sidewalks, and she would remember rollerblading through the gutters and sewers, or sleeping in the guest bedroom with the the closet ghost. One black rectangle of stone had slid slyly from her grandmother's ring on her left hand, but she only noted it and smiled, for nostalgia coated and nursed the newness streaming through her networks of capillaries, replenishing the drought soiled banks and filling her up, satiating her growth and her streamlining spirit, branches upon branches upon branches like the ones she slept in as a youth.