My Moroccan Quan Yin

I'm circling the words I wrote last year

And the forms created in the garden

There is a story in them of how love falls apart

How we are left standing, sitting, clinging to the ground

Facing the wind and the rubble

In the dream, my grandmother comes wrapped in Quan Yin

She follows her heart to my smile and rests there

The sorrows of hate are washed away from her

She is blessing the people she once cursed