---
date: '2025-05-30'
description: with love and prosperity - Aaron
id: Brenda
layout: letter
modified: 2026-10-11 21:28:01 GMT-04:00
noindex: true
tags:
  - friend
  - poetry
title: to brenda
created: '2025-05-30'
published: '2025-05-30'
pageLayout: letter
slug: posts/Brenda
permalink: https://aarnphm.xyz/posts/Brenda.md
generator:
  quartz: v4.6.0
  hostedProvider: Cloudflare
  baseUrl: aarnphm.xyz
full: https://aarnphm.xyz/llms-full.txt
---
<pre data-codeblock="poetry" class="poetry" data-language="fr">
Hamilton, May 30th

The sidewalk exhales noon: heat‑plumes writhe
like slow dragons under iron lids.
Bricks sweat a milky glaze; chalk laughter
ghosts across the wall, half‑smiled, half‑gone.
A pin‑up ballerina, knee cocked, hovers,
permanently mid‑flight, never free.

Outside, maples empty their pockets.
Leaves pirouette down the alley, scratch
like stylus on weather’s soft vinyl.
Through the mullioned glass, their rust
tumbles in slow-motion. Each spin
a subtitle for change we can’t read.

Inside: bar‑light, refrigerant cool.
The counter, Carrara moonstone, veined
like late‑October river ice.

You stand across from me. That smile
arrives first. Between us:
two espresso martinis, the quiet fact
of your empty Monday mornings.

They wanted you smaller.
  Spreadsheet-sized.
As if anyone could budget light,
  parse out joy in quarterly reports.
  Some things refuse the framework.

But you, dear, are no Applicant’s pawn:
no hollow suit to be tried on,
no doll sewn shut for want or need,
no rubber heart for mouths to feed.

Let contracts burn. You wear no disguise.
Naked as paper? Good. We trace
the map your courage etches there.

See how the maple sheds its crown?
Red-gold surrender. Drifting down
to nurse the soil. That’s how you fall:
  to
    root again.

I’ve been watching trees, how they know
to let go when holding on
becomes the heavier burden. Just seasons
doing what they do.

Tomorrow, someone will ask what you’re missing.
A title. A desk. The weight
of belonging Monday through Friday.

But I’ve watched you fill rooms
with something unquantifiable. Call it
presence. The thing that makes
strangers turn, lean in, remember
why they came.

Leaves drift past the window.
Even in this wrong season, they fall
with specific grace. Passing
through the compartmentalized day.

So let May’s fever fret.
You’re spring’s own verb, releafing.

When closing time fractures the candle,
we shoulder jackets leaf-brown, step outside.
Streetlight combs orange through the debris.
Every fluttering scrap
  feels like a letter to tomorrow,
  unsigned.
We pocket it just the same.</pre>