lima
in a home where the clouds sulk above a kitchen open to the heavens,
making an unwilling bird bath of the sink
on the streets where trees twist with the wind
and white collar Venezuelans trade a life of professionalism for a sidewalk hustle just so they can eat
near the ocean
with waves crashing
harsh realities under an omnipresent gray in the sky
within a bakery where a woman cries
over a son who won’t return
and a corrupt government who won’t let her leave
God is making something beautiful
we can’t see through the trees
but his is the forest
