Harvest of Waste

The weather has turned but what else would one expect this far into the season? Still, I wonder what difference the long winter would make if we were spilling tea beneath blankets in bed, reading Dickinson, and occasionally catching each other's glance – the one that melts me into the sheets of surrender.

At the corner of Yorkshire and Williamstown, the maple bursts into flames from the top down. I walk with a sweatshirt and the purpose of making sure my body moves in certain ways. Lately, the pain approaches the threshold of suffering. The old dog and I make noises when standing after sitting a long time. There is no time and therefore, it is not running out, my love. But can I please kiss you soon?

Stillness makes a way.

Suburban pears and apples on the ground. I am angry at the harvest of waste. Yet here I am, holding all the apples.

A heart
bleeding for change.
Use my open arms.

Who comes?
Who runs to me?

He who lends
sounds of the sea
in every song

who turns
my wooden skies
to smoke.

His blue tent
in lavender fields
pitched in Love.

pearls, pigs and prophecy -
what cannot be undone
goes on