On Love

Bits of Wandering Jew broke off the main plant when carrying it to a location more suitable. Some time later along the watering route, I saw these left-behind bits on the ground. Kneeling to clear the debris, I found them attached to the earth.

How very deeply purple this plant is; how easily it roots and renews!

Summer must give way to whatever is next. A grief still lingers over a lost month, swallowed whole by the impossibly soft and bottomless muck. Love heals. Seeing it clearly is the trick.

All of me is mine, she said. If I could kiss her to taste it, maybe I would believe it for myself. This and other little bits of honesty.

Acorns already. Green-hatted shot gun rounds, day and night, hitting the roof and rolling. Onto unstained decks. Onto cars. Onto arched backs working in the garden.

Cicada thin above it all. Michigan, I am so in love, except when you bury me in granite clouds and entomb whatever is left. But you know, even then, a love slanted towards the earth.

It's in my chest and I need to tell you; I need to give you what is yours. Two hands crossed on the clavicle.

Curling leaves, yellowing like a bruise from the edges in. For hours the Hairy Woodpecker pulls bark off the old oak. How summer is sighs.

October is wanting the now, not the after. How else would Libra keep in all in check?

Whisper your cold lips closer to my ear. Then, turn to hear what only I can say.