Up past the old lime kiln
built into the side of a hill
we take a hard right at a clearing
lined by brittle apple trees
still willing to bear fruit.

I snap sticks beneath my feet
and steal pictures of the view
while you reach for something
sweet, as much as it bows
to you.

The outfit, tight in places,
and loose in some, says as much
in the buttons as it does in cuffs.

...you hold a poem
that functions half as personal
note and half as telescope
to the heights
awaiting us all.

From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breathing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.

And no matter what
closet we were thrown in,
up what river we were sold
for an embarrassment,
or worse, traded
for a bottle of gin--
we’d carry on in
playful stitches, friends
‘til the end…which came
sooner than wished.

Yesterday I staked off the ground on the hill for an orchard. I want to get 1,000 apple trees agrowing.