So fruitless is the search,
any search. I thought
the wetness of fresh
strawberries were
diamonds but I am still
poor, though my
spirit rages bright.
The ghosts of my
grandparents are
working hard in
the nothingness
of afterlife.
When it is my time,
they will be at an airport
holding a sign with
my name, waving
wildly as an oak
during a storm.
I will wave back,
not knowing
the ubiquity
of rain.

(originally published in The Beatnik Cowboy, Winter 2024)