poem

Her brown eyes create a space inside of me that warms me.

Her brown eyes are the earth, the rows my abuelo and I walk every day to pick tomatoes and peaches from the fields and orchards on the Johns Island farms.

Her brown eyes are my abuela’s blanket, the one she sewed for in the beautiful mountains around San Salvador.

Her brown eyes are warm, earthy and beautiful.

I see her.

Brown eyes.