As a teenager, I lived in Puerto Rico. Our little house on top of a hill offered an amazing view of valleys, ocean and, of course, sky.
Star Struck
(in Borinquen)
I was fourteen, and the Southern Cross overhead
was my guardian, ally, and only friend.
I knew no others in the dark-bright sky
on that faraway island,
floating between heaven and sea.
Orion pranced away, far over the horizon
to my north; out of sight, if not memory.
Ursa Major flirted with me
along the palm-shadowed beaches.
The moon hung low, a lonely pearl between my life and me.
This sky, this island, this age
were a hopeless jumble of longings.
The Milky Way was a sea of tears, like me.
Unnamed yearnings wrung my heart dry.
I could not know the constellations that lay on my own far horizons.
the abundant literary path 