The Distress of Harvest
Love is the taste of persimmons
in the mouth
dry-palated yearning
for something which is not
isolation.
It is the climbing of vines
the illusion of entwinement
a view from the wall
tangled limbs and sweat
like dew before the morning.
It crawls against the glass
turns green-leafed
towards an interior
constructed upon appetite and hunger.
Symbiosis of weathered bricks
and creeping foliage.
Branches quivering with the distress
of fruit and leaves
drooping towards harvest.
Rain like the protest of hands
pelting.
For these moments between
seasons full and stark
we face the knowledge
of winter and dark.
Turn restless back
towards ourselves
and begin
the long gestation that leads to Spring.
|
Months of You
After months of you absent
I am learning the boundaries
of change.
Like storm
the memory of your hands
claiming my back
seeing you
full-breasted
looming
your hands churning me
until I am foam and whirlpool
unutterably still
at the eye of the storm.
The peace you gave
and the pleasure.
Tree roots growing in caverns
where the earth has opened.
There is a kind of inevitability
in endings.
A kind of grace.
Feelings survive departures
or changes in the escarpment.
One grows accustomed
to cliffs which fall away
into the sea.
Accustomed to the winds of grief.
Whether you are with me or not
I feel you
I have kept you
at the core of a tumbled topography
taking lessons in patience
from boulders.
|
