The way these two green hills fit into my eyes,
natural beauty and human beholding.
They are like emeralds from the hand of God.

The Valley of Gold
is born green.

Outside your window, in Honduras,
I picked mangos and I danced
with the Garifuna tribe.

Roatán, West Bay,
the secret to perfectly timing hips
that sway and supple skins that
sink into the sand with hands
reaching.

I skinned the avocados, green,
emeralds from the limbs of trees
outside your window.

I got bad news between
Garifuna drumbeats, the soul
of my singing sinking with the sun,
sailboat, scuba gear, sound of another song.

I flew away from you and fell.
Start your search with a space
this small.

One rectangle of my happiness,
one circle of my sins.

Dancing outside your window
and then
the Valley of Angels is laughing.
The hope of me is flying.
The broken me is crying,
and maybe we will never meet
again.

Heather Truett is a hill born Kentucky girl living down south in Mississippi. Her credits include: The Mom Egg, Vine Leaves Literary, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Forge, and the Young Adult Review Network. She is represented by Amy Tipton of Signature Literary.