planting a tree
sour oranges and
shovels biting
into soft earth
and the cool, distant
promise
of shade and sweet
fruit for lovers we will
never
meet. Oh — make me in
clay, make me a vessel,
just make me a
shape
that holds.
The Return
the memory of you
weighs heavy in my pocket
the skeleton key
to a home I visit
on cool and quiet evenings
when my skin is flush with the dark sky
when I am determined to find
which corner your gentle voice whispers from —
the slow rush of a rising tide.
