“That’s what experience for human is: an amplification and intensification of our sense of ourselves amidst other presences in the world”
—Lyn Hejinian
//
every time we leave the apartment
i tend to the camellia bush down the street, varying pink hues smashed against the concrete
the streets are unkempt with them
//
the botanical garden
coffees and pastries in-hand.
we meander, the camellias are yellow
i am shocked to see a different shade in the wild, wonder how many others i’ve missed.
//
flowers for the crooked shelf
//
every day on my way to work
cross the golden gate bridge, wonder where the water is going or coming from.
the hillsides are dotted with purple this time of year.
one morning i’m brave enough to turn off at a clearing, snap a quick photo from my driver’s side window.
//
flowers for Steph
red / yellow roses more beautiful with each passing day
//
on an atypically sunny day
we drive down 101, see a cluster of cars parked haphazardly along the highway, more people than i’ve seen in a while traipsing through a field of new blooms.
we consider stopping too, but resist.
this type of behavior has been on the news lately; someone is sideswiped by a car and killed because they were attempting to snap a photo while driving by. highway patrol drive up and down the freeways to keep peace & order.
is nature that helpless?
//
on all those drives home
i’ve always loved those tall skinny yellow flowers that conquer hillsides up and down the coast.
a line in Sesshu Foster’s book City Terrace Field Manual tells me they are yellow mustard.
how many drives have i made home (los angeles)?
how many times have they followed me?
//
in the spring
on the hillside across the street a yellow scar of flowers appears.
//
for angel’s book launch
purple, of course.
//
in the park
tiny white flowers trampled by sun-chasers.
//
back home after heartbreak
i go to the fullerton arboretum and get lost
pack snacks and try to find a place to sit and write
keenly aware of the irony that beyond the foliage; a bustling.
//
for mom
she tended roses all through my childhood, never once cutting them for her own enjoyment.
i never really put that together until now.
she always wanted someone to buy her purple roses on her birthday, but none of us ever did.
//
the first warm week of spring
i take walks during lunch rather than sit in my office and work. there are lots of people who have the same idea, we politely smile and wave as we pass each other on the narrow sidewalk
nature preserve beyond the parking lot in bloom, too.
who needs to write when nature is doing it for you?
//
that our cats will attempt to eat
//
on the way home from southern california
we spend the night in pismo beach
our hotel is right on the water and we spend the morning drinking coffee and enjoying the green hills
splashed with color, our backs to the ocean
it’s all the same, really.
//
for gravesites
those who i haven’t visited lately
//
a nice reminder
life moves
even when you do not.
//
on the way to visit a friend
stop and cut some, keep in water for traveling
later, press & memorialize at home
//
for the coffee table
//
from the farmers market
after therapy sessions it made me feel less vulnerable
a comfort
//
there are so many occasions to give flowers, but what about an un-occasion.
can it ever be natural?
Erick Sáenz is a Latinx writer in San Francisco. He is the author of Susurros a mi padre (The OS, 2018), This is my exit: stories (Little Skull Press, 2021), and several self-published chapbooks // zines. You can find additional writing online. Erick is the founding editor of Lilac Press and co-hosts the Light Jacket Reading Series. He sometimes makes noise loops as //.
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Heavy Feather Review 